To Face the Wolf
by Maglor's finch
Summary: In the Hogwarts dungeons, Snape finds a mysterious, badly wounded stranger. He appears to be bitten by a werewolf. What happened? Timeframe: Prisoner of Azkaban. Crossover with Tolkien's Silmarillion. Complete.
1. Chapter 1

_**To Face The Wolf**_

_**a Harry Potter - Silmarillion crossover  
**_

_Disclaimer: I own neither Finrod (who belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien) nor any of Harry Potter characters (who belong to J. K. Rowling). I just put them in my cauldron and stirred them a little. _

_1. Severus Snape_

It was a night of the full moon. At a quarter past eleven, the Hogwarts Potions master entered the dungeon where he kept some of his viler supplies. The dungeon door had no lock, but the supply cabinet was strongly warded and well-protected: if anyone but Snape himself so much as touched it, they would be cursed with itching red hands for forty-eight hours in a row. Thus, trespassers would be unmasked and punished to put the fear of Severus Snape into all and sundry except the Headmaster (who could bypass the wards). After, all, one couldn't be too careful in a castle full of irresponsible dunderheads, and the arrangement had proved effective on several occasions.

Striding to a green cabinet bearing the inscription _In Cauda Venenum_ in letters of glittering silver Snape almost stumbled over a large obstacle. He stopped dead and stared down. There was a body lying at his feet.

The body, draped across the stone floor like some discarded rag, was naked, male and quite badly mauled. Those patches of skin that weren't covered in blood looked dirty and unwashed; the long blonde hair was filthy and tangled. There was blood at the corner of the mouth, too, as if the man had chewed his lip in pain - or maybe he had suffered internal injuries?

For a moment, the Potions Master thought the body belonged to Lucius Malfoy. A dead Lucius. His heart skipped a beat, until he realised it was a stranger who'd had the evil courage to invade the storeroom with his unwanted presence in order to breathe his last -

Except that the stranger didn't seem to be entirely dead. Drawing his wand by way of precaution, Severus knelt down to verify this observation. As so often, he turned out to be correct: the chest was moving, be it barely. Though far from well the invader was alive. The Potions Master found himself gazing at the worst of the wounds, near the collarbone. He touched it briefly with the tip of his wand before aiming it at the stranger's forehead, muttering a spell.

_A dimly lit tangle of fur and skin rolling around on a dirt floor. A slavering jaw. Sharp, flashing teeth closing on naked flesh._

He shuddered and shook himself; he knew enough. Resisting the temptation to speak the Avada Kedavra he withdrew his wand and rose to return to the hearth in his living room and to his jar of floo powder.

_2. Poppy Pomfrey_

'Careful, Albus!' Poppy Pomfrey warned automatically when the Headmaster levitated the injured stranger to the infirmary bed. From the moment she set eyes on those wounds she had feared that even if she'd be able to save his life, it would be a close call. 'One jolt too many and he may die.'

Albus nodded, lowering the body carefully onto the bed. 'You can examine him now, Poppy,' he said.

Poppy stepped closer, filled with apprehension. There was more amiss than met the eye here, as she'd noticed on touching the patient's clammy skin. It wasn't only blood that coursed through his veins, but something else, too. Some kind of venom - or something infectious.

'Those are tooth marks,' remarked Severus Snape, who was standing several feet away and gazing at the patient with a look that was definitely on the wrong side of clinical. 'If you ask me -'

'I noticed the marks, Severus,' Madame Pomfrey said with some asperity. 'I've seen bite wounds before.' Most of them had marred the body of young Remus Lupin after nights of the full moon, more than two decades ago now. But there was no way that she was going to mention him in Snape's presence.

'One wonders,' mused the Potions Master in a silky voice, 'what could have caused those marks. Maybe Lupin could tell us more?' And wouldn't Snape be outrageously happy if it turned out that Remus had finally succumbed to the urges of the wolf, and done the thing that would lead to his destruction? Poppy knew how Snape felt about the wolf.

'Remus has locked himself inside his rooms tonight for reasons we're all aware of, Severus.' The Headmaster's blue gaze turned toward his Potions Master, while Poppy turned her back to Snape to cast some cleaning spells and subject the patient to a thorough examination. 'I am far from sure he will be able to shed much light on this affair, and I doubt that a rampaging werewolf would neatly close the door on his victim.'

Snape scowled; he probably regretted mentioning the closed door. 'Who can tell what Lupin is capable of?'

'Even if he takes the Wolfsbane Potion you are so kind to prepare for him?' Dumbledore wanted to know.

'How do we know he actually takes it?' said Snape, who seemed to be gathering momentum for a bout of ranting. 'So far, he has never done so in my presence!'

Frowning, Poppy tried to concentrate on her work, which was difficult enough without Severus Snape souring the atmosphere behind her back.

'I'll ask him,' she heard the Headmaster reply. 'Once he has transformed back, and has recovered sufficiently to answer my questions.' His voice became slightly more authoritative. 'Apparently you've drawn your conclusions, Severus - but I say that Remus deserves the benefit of the doubt.'

To Poppy's satisfaction, the Potions Master subsided. But her smile dissipated soon. The results of her diagnostic spell were not to her liking. Also, she'd noticed that, in addition to the crusted blood at the corner of his mouth, the patient had dried blood under his fingernails as well - and hairs.

As if he'd been in a fight with something furry.

Suppressing her agitation, she brushed some strands of filth-encrusted hair from the patient's neck and the upturned side of his face to see if there were more wounds hidden underneath. Her hand stopped in mid-motion and she found herself staring at the ear she had just uncovered. Instead of being round, the ear had a pointed tip - somewhat like the ears of a house-elf, though not nearly as large. Peculiar, for otherwise he looked perfectly human.

Oh well, it was probably just a freak of nature, Poppy decided. A minor freak.

She straightened. 'Severus, could you provide me with a universal antidote? Whatever it was that bit him, I suspect it was poisonous, and the venom has entered his bloodstream.'

'You're thinking of werewolf saliva?' Snape's black eyes glittered with a different kind of venom.

'It's too early to tell yet,' Poppy said impatiently. 'Do you have what I need, yes or no?'

'If you would be a little more _specific_ about the... condition you wish to treat, I'd be able to serve you better,' Snape replied, his voice insinuating, 'though if we're dealing with werewolf bites, we all know there's no cure, don't we? If you insist on an universal antidote, though, I'll have to brew it first, which will take some time. And it will be somewhat less effective, as it will have to cover a multitude of afflictions. I shall need twenty-four hours.'

As Poppy doubted he spoke the truth she looked at the Headmaster, but he didn't give Snape the lie, and it didn't really matter anyway, if her diagnosis was correct. At last she said: 'Then bring us what you have.' _As long as you leave NOW._

The Potions Master turned back to Albus Dumbledore. 'You may want to use legilimency on this stranger, Headmaster.'

'Rest assured that I'll do everything within my power to shed light on this matter, Severus,' said the Headmaster in a tone of finality.

Snape swept away.

When he had left, Poppy took a deep breath and said. 'I'm afraid, Professor Dumbledore, that we may have a werewolf infection on our hands, however much I'd like to deny that the patterns of these tooth marks remind me of werewolf bites, and however much I want Severus to be wrong. I've just seen to many of those injuries while Remus was a student here.'

Dumbledore sighed. 'Though I do not doubt your diagnostic qualities, Poppy, I do hope you are mistaken. It's a fortunate coincidence there are no students in the infirmary tonight, for under the circumstanstances it is better to keep the presence of this stranger a secret.'

_3. Remus Lupin_

'I assure you, Albus, that I took several doses of the Wolfsbane Potion during the days preceding the full moon; I've been doing so since you appointed me as a teacher here. I never left my rooms last night; at some point I even fell asleep on the hearthrug, only waking up when I transformed back.' Remus Lupin cast Albus Dumbledore a resigned glance. 'Unfortunately, I can't prove this, for lack of any witnesses. I suppose it doesn't help to claim there's no way I could have handled a door that opens outward.' It was rather difficult to disprove what you hadn't done.

Albus Dumbledore sighed, and Remus understood why. The benefit of the doubt was more than most others would grant a werewolf. Without it, he'd never have been appointed as a teacher at Hogwarts. However, under the circumstances he had no right to expect an immediate declaration of unqualified trust from the wizard who was responsible for the wellbeing of the entire student population. _And it isn't as if I'm entirely trustworthy, Remus had to admit to himself._

He hated to feel so tired. As always, the monthly transformation had demanded its toll. But right now this was a minor concern; his very life could be at stake here. 'Do you want to interrogate me while I'm under Veritaserum?' he asked when the silence started to get on his nerves. Not that he was eager to do so, but the chances the Headmaster would ask any fatal questions concerning the escaped Sirius Black were slim enough to accept the risk.

Dumbledore shook his head. 'Not yet. We will wait and see what happens to our patient during the next full moon.' His eyes found their twinkle back. 'Let's remain optimistic. Maybe Poppy's suspicions will turn out to be wrong.'

Remus wondered whom it was the Headmaster was trying to fool; if anyone was able to recognise a wound caused by werewolf teeth, it was Madame Pomfrey. But all he said was: 'So the patient is going to survive?'

'Things look better than they did last night, I'm told. Severus was kind enough to bring us several of his potions. Poppy managed to make him drink something, and it seems to be helping,' replied Professor Dumbledore.

How co-operative. _Severus must be absolutely convinced it was me. He's probably dying to see me accused._ A dangerous desire, for the Potions Master was perfectly capable of deciding that the victim's memory needed some aid. For obvious reasons identifying the werewolf who bit you was notoriously difficult. Suddenly he imagined a werewolf in the witness stand, under the influence of the Wolfsbane Potion and supervised by Severus Snape, pointing a shaggy paw at the equally wolfish defendant. He coughed to hide a nervous chuckle and asked: 'Can I see him? I need to visit the infirmary for a check-up anyway.'

'I don't see why not.' The Headmaster rose. 'You won't do anything rash, will you, Remus - like leaving Hogwarts?'

'Of course not,' Remus replied somewhat stiffly, pushing the resentment back into the undesirable emotions compartment. From the thin lips of Severus Snape such a question would have been an insult, but Dumbledore's face showed only benign and genuine concern - for which a werewolf with a guilty conscience ought to be grateful. Good intentions must be allowed to make up for a slight lack of tact.

It was a quarter to twelve when he entered the infirmary. Madam Pomfrey's examination yielded nothing that wasn't to be expected after a transformation. She prescribed more rest and the extra bar of chocolate Remus would have allowed himself regardless of her advice, and he thanked her kindly. Then he broached the subject of the possible werewolf victim occupying a bed in the staff section of the infirmary.

At that, her gaze became somewhat evasive, as if she didn't really want to establish a connection between the resident werewolf and her unknown patient. When Remus took out his wand and tried to hand it to her to prove that his motives were harmless, she waved it away. 'It's just that... it could be painful for you... and we don't know yet if he's infected...'

Remus smiled. 'I won't break down, Poppy,' he reassured her. 'I'm not as frail as I look - as you ought to know.' He put his wand away. 'Can I go in? I'm really curious to see him.'

She nodded, still looking troubled. 'But don't touch him, and don't wake him. He'll pull through, I think, but he's still weak.'

So much was obvious. The victim was stretched out in the infirmary bed, pale as his own sheets. Alabaster, Remus thought, even though it wasn't like him to think in stereotypes. The part of the shoulder bandage visible above the covers was pink, though, so he was probably still bleeding a little. His breathing was regular.

Remus sat down on a stool beside the bed to observe the still, white face. It was surrounded by long, golden hair, neatly combed as if the owner had died and was laid out for burial. Apart from a scratch across one cheek the face was unharmed. And despite the scratch it was fascinatingly beautiful, like the classical sculpture of an immortal god - which was, of course, merely another stereotype. Who was this? What had happened to him?

_I did take the Wolfsbane Potion,_ Remus reassured himself. _I'd stake my life on it._

He flinched. His life was worth less than a knut if the potion hadn't worked properly. How could he be sure he remembered everything he had done last night? Without that potion he was unable to remember the nights he spent as a werewolf. What if Snape had made a mistake, or worse, had deliberately tampered with it? _If he has, I'll kill him before I kill myself._ He hoped he could bring himself to do it.

He squeezed his eyes shut. It was illogical. Ludicrous. Not even Severus Snape would endanger a school full of children to get back at an old enemy. And yet -

Voices in the main room of the infirmary made him look up.


	2. Chapter 2

_CHAPTER 2_

_4. The Stranger_

At first, the brightness was agony after weeks of darkness in which the eyes of the beast had been the sole, terrible source of light. He flinched, closed his own eyes, opened and closed them again. He had been told that the Houses of the Dead were a place of recovery and rest; whatever light illuminated them ought to be soothing, not piercingly bright like this.

Was it possible, then, that he had not died? Death robbed the soul of its house - yet he hurt in many places, and pain was a thing of the body. Could he be alive? Then why did he no longer lie bound in darkness? Once again he opened his eyes, struggling to adjust.

Where had they taken him? He was stretched out on his back between white sheets, in a room lit by the pale rays of Anar. A room with whitewashed stone walls and tall windows: no dampness, no chains, no bones of faithful companions strewn all about him. Nor did he see the friend he had sworn to save.

Instead, three odd people were gazing down on him: two men, one on each side of the bed, and a woman at the foot. She wore a clean, white apron, and she looked relieved. The man to the right, who smiled at him, was shabbily dressed, and the strands of grey in his brown hair contradicted the youth lingering in his face - but then, what did one who had the life of the Eldar know about ageing? The other man, the one to the left of the bed, wore long robes as black as his lanky hair, and his dark eyes were narrowed in suspicion.

Mortals, unmistakably, all three of them, looking frayed like those who had slaved in the pits of the Enemy, he though.

The woman opened her mouth and spoke. A question, to judge by her tone, but the tongue was foreign. This was regrettable, however much he loved to learn new languages. Unless he had lost his ability to read the minds of mortals he would be able to understand these people well enough, but learning to reply properly would take a while.

When the woman repeated her words, his reading confirmed that she was inquiring after his well being. He smiled reassuringly, for despite the pain he knew that there was naught wrong with his body that time would not heal. He remembered that he had been dying before the darkness took him, so these people must have aided his recovery in some way.

He looked at the friendly mortal to his right, somewhat surprised to find the kindness mixed with apprehension, and something darker underneath it all. Not all was well with this mortal - and why did his mind dwell on werewolves? What did he know?

Yet when he spoke, pointing at himself, he merely said: 'Remus Lupin.'

Now the black-robed mortal spoke harshly, claiming that communication would near-impossible and that the other was wasting his time. He did not name himself.

He turned his head to the left, searching the hard, dark eyes, trying to catch a glimpse of the mind behind them - and finding naught but a cloud of rejection and displeasure, as if he had entered a bleak, inhospitable cavern instead of a well-furnished home of thoughts and feelings . As he had no wish to lose his way, he withdrew in astonishment. This mortal knew to ward his thoughts as firmly as the Eldar of Aman did, and they had been instructed by the Powers.

Then He remembered to close his own mind against intrusions. No trust for this one. To judge by the man's expression he was well aware of it. His thin lips curled in an unpleasant way.

Extricating his hand from the sheets, the Elda pointed at himself: 'Finrod Felagund.'

Suddenly the man in black strode to the door and left.

_5. Poppy Pomfrey_

With raised eyebrows, Remus Lupin gazed after the disappearing Potions Master. 'Well,' he said, pausing a moment to suppress a yawn, 'if he keeps up this pace, he'll be just in time to take over my fifth year DADA class.'

'Ah yes,' Poppy hadn't thought of this. 'I supposed he was going to the Headmaster to tell him Mr. Felagund is a foreigner. This does complicate things, doesn't it?

'It does, unless we manage to teach him English pretty soon, so we'll can explain... the situation.' The glance Remus cast at the patient was deeply troubled and though Poppy couldn't, or rather, wouldn't imagine he was the cause of the patient's predicament it was apparent that he did feel responsible in some way. Meanwhile the patient - Mr. Felagund, she reminded herself - was blithely unaware of his probable fate, and again she hoped fervently that they would turn out to be wrong about his bites.

At Remus's sigh Poppy shook her head. 'You look tired, Remus. You should take more rest after your transformations.'

As if he'd been waiting for the cue Remus nodded, walked over to the second bed in the room and sat. 'Do you mind if I use this for my necessary beauty sleep?' Without waiting for permission he began to take off his shoes.

Poppy smirked. Nicely done - Potter Sr. and Black hadn't befriended the young werewolf without a reason when they were students, all those years ago; Remus could be as tricky as they came, if he wanted. Well, as far as she was concerned he was welcome to try and communicate with this Finrod Felagund. Maybe he would be able to find out more about him.

Lying down Remus looked aside. 'You won't mind my company, will you, sir? he asked amiably. 'I hardly snore at all.'

Mr. Felagund smiled as if he understood, a gleam in his strangely bright eyes. She knew it wasn't fever that made them shine like that. He seemed far too aware of his surroundings, and he didn't even sweat; in fact, he was recovering with astonishing speed, given the gravity of his wounds.

It was rather, she thought, as if those eyes shone with the reflection of some bright flame that he alone could see.

Remus turned to the healer. 'If I'm still asleep half an hour or so before dinnertime, would you be so kind to wake me up, Poppy?'

'Of course I will. Sleep well,' she replied, keeping a straight face but never doubting for a moment he'd be awake enough to warn her, if necessary. Once she'd left the room she considered casting a sound-enhancing spell, though she realised it would be a little unethical.

_6. Remus Lupin_

They stared at each other across the space between the beds, Remus trying to decide what to say. He strongly suspected that this Finrod Felagund, whose piercing grey eyes were observing him with unflinching intensity, had understood a great deal of his conversation with Madam Pomfrey.

Finally he said: 'Finrod, - you don't mind if I call you by that name?'

Finrod shook his head.

'Do you understand what I say?'

'I... do.'

That was unexpected. 'So you do speak English, after all,' Remus concluded.

Another shake of the head. 'Not... yet.'

Deliberately averting his eyes, Remus asked the next question without voicing it: _Are you reading my mind?_

'I am.'

If he spoke the truth, the man had to be a Legilimens in Snape's league at the least, maybe even in Dumbledore's. If this was legilimency, and not something entirely different. Finrod had no wand and he did not need eye contact, nor did he seem to be using any kind of spell.

'Why are you doing it?' Remus wondered, facing those eyes again. 'To learn our language?'

Finrod nodded. 'Speak much,' he suggested with an encouraging smile.

Though Remus would rather ask questions, he could see the virtues of verbal communication. So he began to tell Finrod what had happened from the moment he was found unconscious and badly injured in a dungeon underneath Hogwarts Castle to the instant he woke up. As this earned him a puzzled stare Remus paused to give the other the opportunity to speak.

'Where?' Finrod wanted to know.

Why not? Remus thought. If the man could use Legilimency, he had to be a wizard of some kind So he took a breath and told Finrod about Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, about its staff and its students, the subjects taught, the four Houses, the moving stairs and the portraits, the towers and the dungeons, the lake with the giant squid, the Enchanted Forest and the Whomping Willow (though he omitted the reason why it had been planted there). He was about to mention Quidditch when he noticed that Finrod's puzzlement had shifted to the dismay of someone who is completely lost.

Remus's hart sank. Had he been speaking to a Muggle, after all? Had he overstepped his bounds? In that case he'd have no other choice than to obliviate Finrod. His hand had already closed on his wand when it occurred to him that jumping to conclusions was something better left to Severus Snape. 'All this sounds unfamiliar to you?'

'Very.'

'Where are you from? Which country?'

'Beleriand. Na-' Finrod broke off. 'Beleriand,' he repeated, almost anxiously.

Now where was that supposed to be? Remus had always considered himself well acquainted with world geography. If one taught about magical creatures, one needed to know where to find them. But this name was wholly unfamiliar to him; maybe he had misheard it? It had a vaguely Celtic ring. 'Did you say Broceliande? The enchanted forest of Brittany figuring in some Arthurian tales?'

Finrod shook his head. 'Be-le-ri-and?'

Once more, they stared at each other across the space between the beds, and it seemed to Remus that it had grown slightly wider. 'Finrod,' he asked slowly, 'are you a wizard or a Muggle - I mean, an "ordinary mortal", as non-magical people call it sometimes?'

The man in the other bed caught and held his gaze for a long time. When he finally spoke it was to say: 'I am... no mortal.'

_7. Finrod Felagund_

Shock and disbelief warred on Remus Lupin's face. He shook his head jerkily, as if to rid himself of an undesirable thought. 'But...' he began, and faltered.

Finrod's heart sank; had he made a mistake? His mind must have been slightly befuddled still and his usual caution must have failed him when he answered Remus's query, instead of remembering how speaking is as silver to the gold that is silence. He knew nothing of these people, nor was he sufficiently well versed yet in their language to express himself properly or engage in subtle conversation.

When he first encountered mortals in East-Beleriand, Finrod had been on familiar territory, while they were not. Here, he was a stranger; either the existence of a deathless race closely resembling that of Men was unheard of in this place, or if they existed, they were not supposed to be here. In his own way, Finrod was as bewildered as Remus appeared to be. What had transpired since he had lost consciousness in that dungeon on Tol-in-Gaurhoth, where he had wrestled with Sauron's evil beast? Was he in the waking world, or was this a venom-induced vision on the threshold of death? What Remus had told him resembled a child's embellished account of a garbled dream more than anything else; yet he knew that the man believed each word and every corresponding image that his mind had conjured up for Finrod to read. If he lied, it was only by omission.

But if this was no fever vision, how could it be that he found himself in this unfamiliar place? And where was this place?" Had he been transported to some remote region of Arda, where the stars were strange? Or - and it was as if his mind burst out of a cloud, not downward, but upward, at the side of the heavens - did the created universe encompass more planes of being than his or anyone's philosophy had dreamt of?

It was a thought, too large and unwieldy for a finite consciousness to grasp on such short notice. His sister, Finrod mused wryly, would have told him that his mind and soul were straying further from home than his body ever could. Why such a thing would happen to him of all people, Finrod son of Finarfin, was something he could not even begin to fathom.

Suspending both his disbelief and his judgement, he decided that he had to gain more knowledge first - in itself a pleasant task for one blessed with an insatiable curiosity. 'What is -' he began, but Remus spoke simultaneously and both of them fell silent, exchanging apologising smiles. 'You first,' Remus said courteously.

Finrod acknowledged it with a nod. 'What is this - magic, you named it? Wizardry?' He thought of some of the mortals he had befriended, who were of the opinion that if an Elda could do things a Man could not, such as using mind-speech, these things fell into a special category demanding a special name. They were invariably surprised when the Eldar were unable to explain what was so special about these abilities, and in what way they differed from those of an excellent archer, or a harper or a master smith. It was simply their Art.

Perhaps Remus was experiencing the same difficulty, as he hesitated for a considerable time. But at last, he seemed to make up his mind. 'I'll show you,' he said, sitting up and pulling a thin stick of about eleven inches from inside his patched robe. 'This is a wand, and we use it to channel the magic.' He pointed the wand at the empty cup on Finrod's bedside table. 'Accio cup.' The drinking vessel flew into his free hand. 'This is one of the things magic can do,' he explained. '_Accio_ is a spell. And here's another one.' He dropped the cup on the floor, where it promptly shattered, and pointed his wand at it. 'Reparo.' The pieces reassembled themselves until the cup was smooth and flawless again. Then Remus shrank it to the size of a thimble and expanded it, explaining that this was a useful charm if one wanted to move large objects. And finally he transformed the cup into a saucer, levitated it to the bedside table and turned it back into a cup.

'Magic,' he finished in a lecturing tone, 'is a faculty wizards and witches are born with and it's use is taught in schools like Hogwarts. Muggles is our name for non-magical people.'

His lecture had been most instructive and Finrod nodded to show that he understood. Unlike the Eldar, these wizards had apparently given their special ability a separate name. To judge by what Remus had shown him this _magic_ was an innate power, a way of controlling the building blocks of matter, honed into a craftsman's tool. And as far as he could tell its workings were true, not illusions.

An interesting ability, if one wished to save time and energy - precisely what mortals would long for, craving swift mastery and instant results in most things they undertook. If one possessed all the time in Arda, like the Eldar did, and had their love of the material world, their desire to know it intimately, manipulations like these would only reveal the extent of one's laziness or impatience.

However, he suspected that there was more to it. Sensing the reticence underneath this wizard's semblance of openness, Finrod doubted he had seen even half of what he could do. Nor would all applications of this magic be as innocent as the ones he had just seen. Power over matter could be as dangerous or harmless and as destructive or useful as the strength of the body. Any desire to dominate, in whatever guise it appeared, had better be regarded with suspicion. And as for matter as such - was it not all contaminated by Morgoth, who had diffused part of his power throughout Creation?

It was Remus who broke the silence 'Could you do the sort of thing I just demonstrated?'

Finrod shook his head. 'Wizards do these things? Then I am no wizard,' he said, keeping his voice carefully neutral.

Remus stared at him, fumbling with his wand as if he was about to cast another spell but apparently deciding against it. Finrod sensed that the wizard was both disappointed and unconvinced, but instead of voicing his doubts he decided to challenge Finrod's other claim.

'My turn to ask you a question,' he said. 'They told me you were near death when you were found in our dungeons. How is that possible when you're immortal?'

This was difficult. 'I die not of old age,' Finrod replied. 'But I can be...' this was a concept that had not come up, either in Remus's survey or during the rest of their conversation, so he did not know how to put it.

'... killed?' the other suggested hesitantly.

The image that came with this word was as unambiguous as it was distressing. Finrod nodded, suddenly saddened and worried again: what fate would befall Beren son of Barahir in faraway Beleriand, now that the one who had sworn an oath to defend him with his life had been spirited away?

'What, or who was it that wounded you?' he heard Remus ask.

Why was he looking so anxious? What did he fear? What evils lurked in this place that could rip people apart?

'How did you come by those injuries?' Remus insisted. Suddenly he looked more tired and frail than he had before, and Finrod pitied him.

'I do not... have the word,' he said.

'Was it a werewolf?'

Now he did have the word. The image of the beast was vivid, violent and fearsome. What was it with this wizard and werewolves? Had he lost a loved one to such a foul creature? What had the healer said again, after telling him that he looked tired? Once more, Finrod's mind touched on the shadow within Remus's soul, the dark veil that he would not penetrate even if he could, because assailing the mind was as bad as raping the body.

Before he could reply the door opened. It was the woman called Poppy, the healer, bearing two cups. 'I do not want to know what that noise was,' she said, probably referring to the shattering earthenware, 'but I think there is far too much activity in here. This is an infirmary, after all.' She frowned. 'Remus, you look dreadful, but fretting won't change a thing and a few hours of sound sleep can make a world of difference. I'm sure that Mr Felagund could do with some more rest, too.'

Finrod realised that he could. His injuries were not fully healed yet, and trying to converse in an unfamiliar language had drained him. He accepted the cup with a smile and a nod.

(TBC)


	3. Chapter 3

_CHAPTER 3 _

_  
8. Severus Snape_

Fuming, Severus Snape returned to his dungeons. Dumbledore hadn't attached any significance to the fact that the stranger appeared to be a Legilimens. 'But Severus, dear boy! Surely you know that you, of all people, have little to fear from such a person,' he had replied calmly, popping the lemon drop his Potions Master had declined into his mouth.

Severus had tried to point out that an unknown entity with strange eyes showing up unexpectedly in a place where Apparition was impossible, would pose a considerable risk. Danger could lurk everywhere - hadn't it been hiding under the turban of an innocent seeming teacher less than two years ago? Right now, the escaped mass-murderer Black was at large, threatening the precious life of famous Harry Potter. Who knew what allies Black had inside Hogwarts castle? Even if the Headmaster insisted on trusting Black's former crony the werewolf, was it wise to disregard the possibility of someone entering the castle with the help of an illegal Portkey in order to -

At that moment, Dumbledore had interrupted his Potions Master, wondering how it was possible that the poor werewolf victim Severus had found in the dungeons - a man whose mastery of the English language apparently left much to be desired - had suddenly transformed into a minion of evil even before his status of Dark Creature was officially confirmed. All he could promise, was that he would have another look at this Mr. Felagund. 'But right now I will not lock him up, or ban Remus from the Hospital wing,' _merely to satisfy your desire for revenge_, his tone implied. Dumbledore clearly failed to acknowledge that the last person to be allowed into this stranger's presence ought to be the resident werewolf.

Dismissed like the schoolboy to whom he was almost invariably reduced in the presence of the irrepressible Headmaster, Snape strode away in a cloud of black fabric. It was almost dinnertime, but he would be damned - as he suspected he was anyway - if he shared a table with either Albus Dumbledore or his pet tonight.

Instead, he almost crashed into Sybill Trelawney, the Divination tart, who rounded a corner and had not seen him coming.

She was nursing her hand. 'I'm on my way to the Hospital wing,' she volunteered, though Snape wasn't aware he had wanted to know. 'I dropped my crystal ball on my little finger. It's probably broken.'

'Really? I didn't know Madam Pomfrey also healed inanimate objects,' Severus remarked. 'But in case she finds a remedy, there's a new patient in the staff sickroom who may want you to crystal-gaze for him and have his future foretold. With a special focus on the next full moon.'

_9. Sybill Trelawney_

By the time she reached the Hospital wing Sybill was done crying. Usually, physical pain did not provoke quite so many tears, but the combination of Snapish sarcasm and a broken finger-bone would cause the eyes of less sensitive people to run over, she told herself. A consoling thought. She would like to predict a sticky end for the Potions Master, but - and this was just as well, as his reaction would be predictably nasty - her tea leaves refused to have anything to do with the man, while he refused to have anything to do with her crystal ball. Snape had visited her tower exactly once in a full dozen years. She had knocked at his dungeon door thrice that time, and it wasn't her fault he had never let her in.

Poppy Pomfrey cast her a sympathetic glance when she heard what was wrong. 'Poor Sybill. That must hurt.' She moved her wand over the damaged finger. 'Fortunately it's just a simple fracture: nothing shattered. Could have been worse, though; that ball isn't exactly light. But a common healing spell will suffice; you won't have to take Skele-gro.'

'I know,' Sybill said with a wise nod, enjoying the sensation of receding pain - until Poppy added: 'Why did you drop it?'

Sybill shivered. 'I'd just finished polishing it,' she replied, choosing the vaguely threatening tone rather than the dire-peril-inflection or the voice of inevitable disaster, 'when I had this gruesome vision of a great, snapping jaw with razor-sharp teeth showing itself in the crystal.' She wanted to add that the fangs she had seen belonged to a great black Grim when a slight gasp from Poppy cut her short. This surprised her a little, as the healer definitely belonged to those of little faith when it came to Divination. 'Poppy, I see that this disturbs you.'

'It's nothing. The mental image unsettled me a little.'

Sybill was about to say it was the grim prospect of someone dying that should be unsettling when the door to the staff sickroom opened and it was her turn to gasp.

A man dressed in nothing but bandages and a bed sheet wrapped loosely around his torso stepped through. He was impossibly tall, about six feet seven, and even if you counted all the bandages impossibly good-looking with his golden hair and blazing grey-blue eyes and chiseled features and the stretches of smooth, ivory-pale skin visible between the strips of gauze. He blinked once when he saw Poppy and Sybill, smiled disarmingly and gestured toward his groin: 'I need to... please?' His voice was as wonderful as the rest of him, though his accent was a little outlandish and his request disappointingly down-to-earth.

And there was something wrong with him. An air of... sadness... despair even? seemed to hang all about him. _He is doomed,_ Sybill decided with a sigh. What a heavy burden it could be to wear the cloak of prophecy.

Poppy's jaw dropped to the floor. 'You...' she muttered after a silence. 'You can't be well enough to walk yet.' Her voice became stern. 'You ought to stay in bed. And why didn't you tell us you spoke English after-'

'Poppy, he's quite obviously capable of walking, so why shouldn't he visit the bathroom?' Sybill pointed, despite Poppy's mutterings about a chamber pot. 'That way, sir. Second door to the right.'

'Thank you, my lady.' He nodded graciously. While he strode past, his sheet trailing behind him, Sybill smiled fondly. He reminded her of ancient deities, descended to humble and awed mortals.

'Who is this man?' she asked.

'Good question. All I know is that Severus found him injured in one of the dungeons, and that his name seems to be Finrod Felagund.' Poppy lowered her voice. 'Don't mention him to the students. Headmaster's orders.' She turned back to Sybill. 'Why don't you gaze into your crystal ball, or ask your tea leaves who our mysterious stranger is?'

Was the healer coming around where Divination was concerned? 'Of course I will, Poppy! I think -' Sybill stopped abruptly, remembering something. 'Could this be the patient who wanted me to crystal-gaze for him?'

'What? Who told you...' Poppy's frown deepened. 'Let me guess. You had an encounter with Snape.'

Sybill nodded, to the noise of flushing from the bathroom. 'He muttered something about the next full moon as well. I wonder what he was getting at.'

_10. Remus Lupin_

'Do you really wonder why Severus mentioned the next full moon?' said Remus, emerging from the staff sickroom with his shoes in one hand. 'That should be obvious. He likes to remind people of what I become during those nights. I suppose he hopes Mr. Felagund will find out about it and shun me.'

Sybill Trelawney was eyeing him with the vague confusion that had also crept into her gaze when he refused to let her divine his future. He had pretended it was because her crystal ball reminded him of the full moon, but he hadn't been sure if she believed him. However, she hadn't questioned his truthfulness then, and she didn't seem inclined to question it now.

Scanning the room he asked: 'Where's Finrod?'

'In the bathroom,' Poppy replied. 'Let's hope he'll return to bed before the next student drops from her broomstick or blows up his potions Cauldron. I don't like to obliviate the children. Did you sleep a little, Remus?'

'More than a little.' He smiled. 'I feel better now - and hungry.' The clock told him dinner would be in less than half an hour, and he sat down on a bed to put on his shoes. From the bathroom, he heard renewed sounds of flushing.

He was fumbling with the second shoelace when he heard Sybill say: 'Well, Poppy, thank you for healing my little finger. If Mr. Felagund wants to know more about his future, tell him to come to me when he's better.'

_I must remember to warn him_, Remus said to himself.

'I'll tell him,' Poppy replied with just a tiny hint of amusement in her voice. 'Take care of yourself, Sybill.'

When Remus straightened, the Divination teacher had left. 'Let me guess,' Poppy said. 'You want to be the one who tells Mr. Felagund about the werewolf bites.'

A third round of flushing in the bathroom. 'Maybe he knows,' Remus said with a deliberate shrug to suggest he didn't care. 'He was about to tell me what bit him when you came in bringing those sleeping draughts.' He raked through his hair with his fingers. 'He's taking an awfully long time in the bathroom. I think I'll take a peek inside, in case he needs help.'

'Remus,' Poppy asked, 'did he explain to you how he ended up in Snape's supply dungeon?'

Remus paused outside the bathroom door, shaking his head. 'He doesn't seem to have the faintest notion.' He dived inside, where Finrod was standing at one of the sinks, playing with the tap.

'An ingenious mechanism,' he declared, trying to stem the flow of the water with his finger and spraying both himself and Remus, who leaped back. 'Is this magic?' He gestured towards one of the cubicles. 'And in there?'

A discourse about the differences between magic and Muggle technology was the last thing on Remus's mind tight then. 'I'll explain it later,' he said. 'Whatever you want to know. But please, tell me first, was it a werewolf who bit you, last night?'

When the other turned to gaze at him he knew how animals caught in the headlights of a Muggle car had to feel. Though he was unable to move, he let his mind go blank before the onslaught of those impossibly bright eyes. It seemed an eternity before Finrod sighed, sorrow, repulsion and pain mingling on his face: 'Yes, it was a werewolf. A creature of darkness.'

_NO!_

Remus's hunger was acutely replaced by nausea. _Stay calm! Don't let your fear get the better of you!_ Struggling to maintain his composure he asked: 'Are you sure?'

He thought he had succeeded in controlling his voice when Finrod asked, concernedly: 'Are you not well, Remus?'

The running tap became a thunderous waterfall. Remus took a deep breath. _It can't have been me. But if it was me, Snape must have tampered with the Wolfsbane and I can face the axe knowing it wasn't my fault. If it comes to that._ 'Just give me a moment.' He knew he could do it, could master his panic and take a grip on himself. 'I'm a bit dizzy, is all. Weak with hunger. I hardly ate today. But I'll be allright.' He smiled.

_11. Finrod Felagund_

He had been about to tell Remus that he had defeated and killed the werewolf when the wizard paled, looking for a moment as if he would faint. He did his best to conceal his inner turmoil, but Finrod was not fooled, neither by his words nor by his smile. It would be better to avoid speaking of werewolves for the time being, for it was plain that this subject thoroughly disturbed Remus's peace of mind - and his own, fragile composure as well, if he was honest.

Meanwhile, the man needed help. Readjusting his bed sheet Finrod left the tiled room to warn the healer. She hurried towards him before he could speak. 'Is something wrong with Remus?'

Together they entered the tiled room and found him with one wrist under the water spouting from the silvery contraption. His face was still white, but he appeared to have regained his composure and rejected the healer's suggestion to lie down again. 'I'll be fine,' he said, letting the water wash over his other wrist.

Finrod doubted the veracity of this claim, but he held his tongue, allowing the healer to send him back to bed. She was capable enough of dealing with Remus, and Finrod assumed that she knew him well.

He had time to mull over several questions before Poppy Pomfrey came in, holding out a fluffy garment resembling a robe. 'This is better than a bed sheet, in case you feel like taking a walk again. Though I'm afraid I must request you to stay in this room as much as is humanly possible, Mr. Felagund, and to warn me if you wish to leave.'

He took the robe from her; it reached no further than his calves. 'Am I... not to be seen?'

'Not yet.' Poppy Pomfrey's tone was slightly evasive.

He was not surprised, let alone insulted, that they wished to know more about him, the stranger, before they could reveal his presence or grant him the freedom of their school. But why did the healer omit to tell him that it had something to do with the wounds made by Sauron's werewolf? They were still there, although he felt that they were closing, his flesh knitting itself together with the swift healing powers of the Eldar. And at this very moment, these wounds were foremost in Poppy Pomfrey's mind. Perhaps he should stop probing for a while?

Finrod drew up his right leg and began to pull at the bandage around the ankle. The healer shook her head disapprovingly. 'You can't take those off yet. It's too soon; such injuries take time to heal properly. I'll change your bandages tonight, but it will take some days before you -'

She fell silent when the gauze came away, and Finrod saw her stare at the scabs covering the skin where the evil bonds - broken with a strength that he had never expected to find - had cut into his wrists and ankles. Suppressing the urge to scratch he removed the remainder of the bandage. 'I'll be fine,' he echoed Remus's claim in the bathroom.

'You talk just like Remus. That attitude of his is contagious,' said the healer before she closed her mouth abruptly, looking dismayed, as if it had been a bad thing to say.

Though he failed understand why, Finrod decided to change the subject. He patted his stomach. 'I would like...' he searched for the correct word '... to eat?'

'Ah, you're hungry?' She seemed relieved. 'I'll have dinner brought up from the kitchen. Professor Snape told me you'd better avoid the consumption of meat so shortly after taking his antidote, but there's plenty of other food, and we have excellent cooks.'

Finrod inclined his head and casually began to unwind the bandage around his left ankle. 'I must remember to thank Professor Snape' - whoever he may be - 'for the antidote.'

'Thank Snape?' the healer said, surprised, as if this was a novel thought for her.

_What ails these mortals?_ Finrod wondered. Was it their magic that made them behave so much more oddly than the peoples of Beor and Hador and Haleth, or was there something he did not know yet?

_12. Poppy Pomfrey_

She wondered how it was possible that this patient's wounds healed as quickly as they did. Could it have something to do with the regenerative powers of werewolves? Remus's self-inflicted bites and scratches had always healed relatively fast after his nights in the Shrieking Shack. But he was bitten years before he came to Hogwarts. Didn't the first bite take weeks to heal? Poppy realised she'd need to consult her medimagical literature, though she seemed to remember Remus had told her once that 'half of the stuff written about werewolves is untrustworthy'.

At his request for food she left to order two dinners from the house-elves; when she returned the bandages around Mr. Felagund's wrists had disappeared as well. But those wounds had not been inflicted by animal jaws, as Poppy had known since she had set eyes on his torn, bleeding body last night. Time to ask a few questions. After a slight hesitation she indicated the scabbed wrists. 'Could it be - and please tell me if I'm being obtrusive - were you tied up or chained before your sudden and inexplicable appearance in our dungeons?'

'Yes,' he replied, closing his eyes, but not before she had seen them darken.

'Do you want to talk about it?'

'I cannot.'

'It was bad, then?'

Poppy began to think he had not heard her when he replied, very softly: 'It is bad.' His shoulders set. The message was clear enough: she had trespassed and stumbled on something grim, and he turned her away.

'I'm sorry to hear that,' she murmured. In the ensuing silence, the weird idea that this man was the infamous Azkaban escapee Sirius Black in an ingenious disguise tried to insinuate itself into her mind. She had never heard of Azkaban inmates being shackled, what with the Dementors to keep an eye on them, but maybe they'd made an exception for a mortally dangerous man like Black... However, Madam Pomfrey was supposed to be a level-headed, competent woman. She refused to succumb to this kind of paranoia.

Looking up she saw how Mr. Felagund began to unwind the bandage around the bite wound on his left arm. This injury was more serious, and she shook her head. 'You had better leave that to me -' she started to say when there was a knock at the door.

It was the house-elf Dribbly, arriving from the kitchen with lightning speed and dinner. Just the distraction her patient needed.

Tasting all the twelve dishes set before him and eating most of them he began to inquire about the elves. Soon Poppy found herself chatting away about the various races, from the homely house-and-garden variety found at Hogwarts to the mysterious, otherworldly and dangerous Sidhe. He was keenly interested, and she remembered his pointed ears, but it seemed impolite to ask him if he was distantly related to a bunch of undersized, unglamorous creatures dressed in rags and tea-towels, that considered themselves born to serve.

(TBC)


	4. Chapter 4

_13. Severus Snape_

Much to his chagrin, Snape was unable to find any lingering traces of dark or illegal magic - such as would be perceptible after the use of a Portkey - in his supply dungeon. Perhaps Dumbledore would be able to discover something, but as it was obvious that Dumbledore wasn't interested in trying, Snape could just as well clean up the mess left by the bleeding stranger. So he scourgified the dungeon floor and returned to his rooms, making a mental list of things to do.

The next morning after breakfast, he braced himself and cornered Lupin outside the Great Hall. It was a Saturday, so the werewolf would be unable to come up with the excuse that he had to teach classes.

'Can I help you, Severus?' Lupin asked pleasantly, as if he didn't notice that Snape was blocking his path.

'Help? I doubt it.' Snape drew himself up to accentuate the fact that he was the taller of the two, be it only by an inch or so. He fixed his gaze on Lupin's forehead instead of looking straight into his eyes. 'But you do have a chance to make yourself useful, and I wouldn't pass it up if I were you.'

'Yes?' was all Lupin said - but he did look over his shoulder to see if anyone was within earshot. The corridor was empty, though. Most students were still at breakfast, except the usual lazybones who overslept.

'As we both know, there's a murderer at large threatening the life of Potter Jr.,' Snape said. 'Then, suddenly, a mysterious, wounded stranger appears at Hogwarts -'

Surprisingly, Lupin cut in: '- bitten by a werewolf.'

Was Lupin changing tactics in the face of incriminating evidence? 'What's this, a confession?' The Potions master would have smiled, except that with this opponent he had better remain cautious. 

'Nothing of the kind,' the werewolf replied, seemingly unperturbed. 'But much as I 'd like to deny it, the creature who bit Mr. Felagund was a werewolf. He told me as much. On the other hand, I can't for the life of me remember biting him, and as I'm supposed to keep my mind while under the influence of your Wolfsbane, it seems highly unlikely that I did. Unless there was something wrong with the potion?'

The accursed wolf was trying to regain control again. _He despises me,_ Snape thought. _I won't be deceived by his generally pleasant behaviour._ 'I - do- not - make - mistakes,' he said through gritted teeth. 'And you changed the subject, Lupin; we were discussing the mysterious stranger, not my potion making.'

A bunch of merry Hufflepuffs erupted from the Great Hall, and for a few moments both teachers were subjected to curious glances and muffled whispers. Snape's glare blew them onwards in a flurry of robes, like leaves before the storm.

'You were discussing him,' the werewolf countered when the students were swept away by one of the moving stairs. 'But go ahead.'

'One wonders,' Snape murmured suggestively, 'how the man was able to enter the castle. Could it be by Portkey - and if so, who provided him with this _illegal_ means of transportation? Or could it have been... Black, who let him in? We still don't know how that murderous traitor managed to gain access to Hogwarts.' He observed the other carefully for any signs of discomfort.

Lupin's face closed and his mind went suspiciously blank. 'What are you getting at, Severus?' he asked calmly.

'What I'm getting at, Lupin,' Snape said, unable to suppress his irritation, is that this newly made werewolf of yours could be a dangerous Dark Wizard. In that case it is in everyone's best interest to keep him from wreaking havoc in Hogwarts.' He softened his voice. 'I'm sure you don't want anything bad to happen to the student population in general, and Potter Jr in particular? I thought not. We have the Dementors watching the grounds, but obviously the danger is already in our midst.'

He could see that Lupin got both messages. Helping to unmask a Dark Wizard would greatly add to the werewolf's survival chances - for who cared if an agent of evil was bitten if he was to be Demented or otherwise eliminated before the bite could take effect? And the second message, of course, was that if Lupin was in league with Black, Severus Snape was going to find them out.

The werewolf shook his head. 'I'm afraid the memory of our guest was affected somehow, for he can't remember at all how he ended up here. Maybe someone obliviated him?' 

The Potions Master shook his head, annoyed. 'Are all werewolves as gullible as you are? Come on!' He took a deep breath and stepped forward until his nose hovered about an inch from the other's snout; he hoped that Lupin could not hear his heart rate go up. You seem to have been... consorting with this stranger. Just keep up the good work. Who knows what you'll find?'

With that, he left, charming his robes into billowing mode. His approach had to be effective, he told himself. Self-preservation, the seed of suspicion, the fear of being caught out, one of these had to affect the werewolf, eventually. Wasn't this what Muggles called psychic warfare, or something?

14. _Remus Lupin_

The Headmaster had no inkling of where Beleriand could be. Nor did he know precisely what to make of Finrod's claim to immortality, but he thought it was something that had better remain between the two - or rather, three - of them. Being mortals, they had no way of finding out if it was true, but in case it was, knowledge of this could become dangerous if it reached the ears of people who once hearkened to the name of Death-eaters. To which Remus agreed wholeheartedly. 

Their guest's ability to probe minds - concerning which Severus Snape had already informed him - seemed most intriguing to Dumbledore, and he promised to have a personal conversation with Finrod, one of these days. This could also serve to determine whether the man was an unusual type of wizard, an abnormal Muggle, or something of a freak. However, Dumbledore's attention focused on the werewolf issue.

'So you want to tell him about the possible consequences of his injuries, Remus?' he asked.

Remus swallowed the remains of his chocolate frog. There were a few unpleasant things he could hide from, but the full moon and her powers, hated and dreaded, were not among them. Sooner or later, Finrod would have to hear the truth about werewolves and the horrors of having been bitten by one. _And will he demand my head, if I infected his blood?_

'I don't think we can afford to wait,' he replied. 'His presence at Hogwarts remains an unexplained mystery. What if he disappears just as mysteriously, without knowing he may have - _how I hate this!_ - a bloodthirsty monster lurking inside him that will emerge when the next moon is full, and possibly make new victims?'

'The responsible thing to do, Remus,' said Dumbledore.

His former pupil met the blue gaze without flinching, doing his best not to suppress his memories of a huge, black dog with shining blue eyes. For more than a semester, he had postponed telling the truth because of the bad light it would shed on his own foolhardy behaviour as a student. He had convinced himself that he would be able to summon the courage yet. And he still hadn't said a word to the Headmaster, despite the fact that the danger had crept into the bowels of Hogwarts. Oh yes, he was very responsible. It was really sickening how responsible he was. Fortunately, the Headmaster did not propose to add any points to Griffyndor...

'But maybe he is more aware of the situation than you think?' Dumbledore went on after a pause. Did he look disappointed? _Must be imagination._

Remus shook his head. 'He knew it was a werewolf who caused his injuries. When he told me so I was too upset to notice, but later it struck me how calmly he seemed to take it. Too calmly, I'm inclined to say. So I don't think he's aware of the danger, which means he has to be told as soon as possible. It's not something I'm looking forward to, but it has to be done, and I'm the obvious person to do it.' _If I can summon the courage._

'Very well then. Tell him also that I will ask Severus to prepare a double dose of the Wolfsbane potion next month, just in case.'

'Thank you.' Remus rose to go.

'One more moment please,' said Dumbledore.

'Yes, Headmaster?' Remus heard himself say, not knowing what to expect and bracing himself for the worst.

'What is your assessment of our mysterious guest. Do you trust him?'

Yet another assault upon his conscience - how much more would it be able to take before it broke down? 'Once upon a time, let's say, a dozen years ago,' Remus replied slowly, 'I would have said yes to that question. Since then, one of the persons I trusted most in this world turned out to be a traitor. People on whose tolerance I thought I could depend turned their backs on me when they found out what I am. I'm afraid my capacity for trust is at a rather low ebb. So maybe I'm not the most obvious person to answer your question.'

The Headmaster did not comment on this; instead he asked: 'But do you like him?'

That was a question Remus had not expected, but as it was much easier than the previous one he answered it promptly. 'I do.'

At that, Dumbledore's eyes twinkled.

After lunch, Remus went directly to the hospital wing, where Madam Pomfrey was examining a fluffy bunny tail sprouting from the bottom of an attractive fifth year. Briefly, Remus wondered who had cast the hex, how many students were familiar with that particular Muggle magazine, and if it was circulating here at Hogwarts. But as it was none of his business he duly proceeded toward the staff sickroom.

Finrod was sitting cross-legged on his blanket, wrapped in a dressing gown and looking out of place in a hospital bed. He had an opened book in his lap but when Remus entered he gazed up, fixing him with those fiery eyes of his. 'Good morning, Remus.'

'Good afternoon, Finrod,' Remus replied with a smile.

'Ah, yes, please correct my errors,' Finrod said gravely.

'How are you?'

'Better. Thank you.'

'Trying to kill your time?'

Finrod looked puzzled. 'Kill time?'

Remus indicated the book. 'Reading. I didn't know you could read English.'

'I tried, but I cannot... Teach me the signs?'

The signs - was he unable to read the Latin script? 'You mean the letters?'

Finrod nodded. 'Teach me, please?' He was good at making puppy eyes, Remus noticed. Like - 

Wrong thought. 'With pleasure,' he said, though he wondered where to fit this into his schedule. 'By the way, what book is this?' _Come on, Remus. You were going to tell him something. Don't procrastinate._ 'I see. Bathilda Bagshot's History of Magic.' He grinned. 'Not the most fascinating book ever, but if you want we could use it as course material. I'll try to be here every day for a lesson.'

'I can leave, says Madam Poppy.' Finrod told him. 'I am mostly whole now.' He flipped open the dressing gown to show his long legs, and Remus was astonished to see how well they looked. His own, self-inflicted bites and cuts after full moon nights had never closed half as fast. He could see scabs in some places, and the pink tissue of newly healed skin in others, but nothing to indicate that Finrod's injuries had been serious enough to be fatal if Snape had not discovered him. And somehow, Remus suspected that this accelerated healing wasn't merely the result of Poppy's skills or Snape's potions. _Maybe he is immortal, after all._

'But I do not know where to go,' Finrod added. 'Do you know a place, Remus?'

Remus thought of the conversation outside the Great Hall, that morning - in the most general of terms, in case his mind was still being read. Not that he was going to admit it to Snape's face, but in his own, twisted way the Potions Master did have a point. 'You can share my apartment, if you want,' he offered. The other matter could wait until tonight, he decided, shamefully relieved.

15. _Hermione Granger_

'Studying again?' Parvati Patil wanted to know. When Hermione failed to reply she bent forward to take a closer look at the title of the book. '_The Sil-marillion,_' she read, frowning. 'What's that?'

'A book about silmarils,' Hermione muttered helpfully. She hated to be disturbed while reading, especially this year. The use of the time-turner left her more tired each day, often causing her to fall asleep over her books. More than half a dozen pages at a time counted as a minor miracle. Fortunately, though demanding enough to make reading it worthwhile, this text wasn't part of her curriculum: she wasn't sure she could have memorised the entire index of names even with the help of a Remembrall.

Parvati didn't give up yet. 'Is it for Ancient Runes?'

Hermione pulled a face. 'Ancient Tengwar.' Then she relented. 'It's a story about three shining jewels made by a brilliant Elven smith and stolen by an Evil Overlord.'

'You mean, He-who-must-not-be-named?' whispered Lavender Brown from her bed.

'Elves don't practise smithcraft,' objected Parvati.

'The Elves in this book do.' 

Parvati laughed indulgently. 'Must be a Muggle novel then.' Lavender giggled.

Hermione nodded and noisily turned the page to indicate the conversation was over. Maybe she should be reviewing another Ancient Runes chapter or sneak up the Astronomy Tower to watch the stars, instead of trying to finish the tale of Beren and Lúthien. The chances that it would have a happy ending were small anyway.

She had almost given up on the book, two nights ago, when Finrod died in Sauron's dungeon. He was her favourite character, so when Lúthien and Huan arrived to rescue Beren Hermione hoped fervently that her Elvenking would turn out to be still alive and that Lúthien would be able to heal his wounds. She wanted it so badly that she had the weirdest of dreams after she had fallen asleep face down on the page - the tear-stained page, as Finrod was truly dead - in a very uncomfortable position. She was Lúthien, but she had her own wand, which she used to revive Finrod chanting a spell in an Elvish language amidst the ruin and carnage of Tol-in-Gaurhoth. The dream, beautiful and terrible at the same time, had ended in Hogwarts, but that part had been much less vivid and the memory of it eluded her.

Last night, she had been mostly unable to read on and tonight wasn't going to be much better, as Hermione discovered when she found herself reading the passage about Carcharoth for the third time. She had better stop, but as she'd been wasting precious time there was no way she could go to sleep yet. Suppressing a yawn she decided to study some more first. It was Saturday night, so she could afford to make it a little later, despite her fatigue. One had to make sacrifices to grow knowledgeable and wise.

She closed _The Silmarillion_. When she did so Crookshanks, who had been dozing at the foot of the bed, woke up. The ginger cat rose, yawned and stretched and then jumped to the floor to trot towards the dormitory door, tail in the air, a cat ready for his nightly endeavours.

Hermione put down the book and rose to let him out. 'I hope you aren't planning to do anything dubious,' she muttered, her eyes suddenly filling with tears. Ron accused her cat of wanting to eat his rat Scabbers, and sometimes it was hard to maintain Crookshank's innocence in the face of an endangered friendship.

'All right then,' Hermione sighed when the animal fixed her with its unyielding eyes. 'I guess you know what you're doing.'

16. _Finrod Felagund_

They ascended the tower built for stargazing - the Astronomy Tower, as Remus called it. Finrod had moved to the wizard's quarters in the hour before midnight, following him through the almost empty maze that was Hogwarts castle. At one point, they had seen the ghost of a mortal lady float by without. When Finrod asked why the dead woman had not left the world of the living Remus had replied that she was probably afraid to do so or else had some unfinished business to attend to, but that asking her was useless because she never spoke.

Finrod would have liked to ask more questions about the lingering presence of dead mortals, if only he had known exactly how to word them.

In Remus's quarters, a set of blue robes had been waiting, provided by the Hogwarts Headmaster, and while Finrod put them on Remus transformed the sofa in his sitting room into a bed, ignoring Finrod's remark that the couch would be good enough. The robes fitted exactly, and Remus had smiled. 'Few things escape the attention of Albus Dumbledore...' Then his face had closed. The change was subtle - but not much escaped the attention of Finrod Felagund either. 

Resisting the temptation to pry into the other's mind again he had decided to abandon the subject, and thanking Remus once more for his hospitality he had asked if they could go to a place where he could gaze at the stars. If this request surprised the wizard he did not show it; he merely said: 'Well, I suppose the chance of encountering any students is small enough at this hour,' and soon they were on their way.

It was very cold on top of the tower - it was the winter season - but the night was clear. The stars wheeled across the heavens in all their blazing glory. The moon, waning but still large, hung low in the sky, almost touched by the gently swaying treetops of a nearby forest. Remus stared at the pale orb for a few moments before his gaze shifted toward a different part of the great vault. He seemed to cling to the parapet, looking tired. Finrod tilted his head to observe the constellations overhead.

He went very still.

There it was: the Valacirca, the Sickle, cutting its sparkling swath through the heart of the night. And there was Wilwarin, too, the Butterfly. These were the very stars of Varda that adorned the wintry sky above Beleriand, while the moon was the same Isil at whose first rising the Noldor, newly arrived in Middle-earth, had blown their silver trumpets. There was nothing strange about these stars. This was not another world. It was Arda. And yet, how could it be?

Turning, Finrod saw the Remmirath in the Northeast, and then, following Remus's stare, his eyes came to rest on a bright blue radiance shining amidst a crowd of lesser lights. Helluin. He realised that he must have said the name aloud when Remus said, shivering a little: 'We call it Sirius. The Dogstar.'

'Helluin consists of two stars,' Finrod heard himself reply.

Remus cast him a glance. 'So you know about that?'

'Know?' What did he mean? 'I see it.'

'The bare eye is unable to see Sirius B,' objected the wizard. 'Sirius A outshines it.'

Finrod shook his head. Apparently, for all their powers, the eyesight of wizards was the same as that of other mortals. 'Then how do you know...?'

'Muggle technology. Muggles may lack our wizarding abilities, but they're not without resources.' Remus cast Finrod a curious glance. 'Can you really see the second star?'

'I can.'

'Amazing...' Remus murmured. 'Would you mind very much if I left, Finrod?' he went on after a moment, his tone apologising. 'I'm freezing. I'll wait for you at the foot of the stairs.'

'I'll come along,' said Finrod, though he did not mind the cold too much. He had seen more than enough to know that he was further from home, further from Beren son of Barahir in his dungeon on Tol-in-Gaurhoth, than he could ever have imagined.

Then a thought struck him, and now he did shiver. If this was Arda, in a way he was not yet able to fathom, it was indeed tainted by Morgoth. Could it be that these wizards were less benevolent than they seemed - that they were behind his displacement? How powerful were they? And what was possible here if even non-magical mortals invented devices to see a star that their eyes could not discern?

Before he turned to leave Finrod cast another glance at the dimly lit lawn sloping down towards the lake and at the line of trees where the forest began. Even his keen Elven-sight was not enough to penetrate very far into the darkness beneath the trees. But he did see the orange cat slip into the woods to join the huge black dog that lay watching the castle with eyes just as icy blue as Helluin. Or no, Sirius.

(TBC)


	5. Chapter 5

_CHAPTER5_

_17. Severus Snape_

Snape was patrolling the empty corridors of Hogwarts hoping to find a trace of Black, as he had done ever since the dark wizard had slashed the portrait of the fat lady. It was past midnight, but as he did not require much sleep he seldom went to bed before two AM (not that he slept a great deal after that either, unless he took one of his own potions). His wand was out: to give him the much-needed edge over Black, to cast about for unusual phenomena, or to scare the hell out of any students sneaking around and breaking the rules, such as Potter and his gang. A sneakoscope would have come in handy, but he did not own one. To know that Black was evil and Lupin dark one didn't need a sneakoscope, and he had not anticipated the mysterious appearance of suspect strangers.

Anyway, the voices murmuring at the edge of his hearing right now probably belonged to student trespassers. The Potions Master halted to locate the sound. This wasn't easy, as the acoustics of Hogwarts castle could be unpredictable. Fortunately he had many years of experience. When the voices did not come his way Snape followed them, gliding along soundlessly, another art he had mastered to perfection. Gaining on them with every stride he passed the Astronomy Tower, the favourite place for illegal trysts. He wondered what couple he would catch tonight. Lupin and Black would be to good to be true, he supposed.

By now, the voices were close enough for him to follow their conversation. One more corner and he would be able to see the speakers. Snape slowed his pace a little, deciding to listen before he showed himself.

'... could transform something into a harp for you,' said the first man, sounding a little hoarse.

The werewolf! Snape held his breath and waited for the reply, anticipation surging through him. Would he recognise the voice of his worst enemy after the Dark Lord?

'Do you play?' asked the second speaker, who was also male.

'I'm afraid not.'

'Then maybe not.'

'Ah.' A chuckle. 'Lacking musical expertise I wouldn't be able to get it right?'

'Not perfect,' the second man said regretfully.

The Potions Master sighed. Whoever this was, not Black. He would have recognised his drawl anywhere - even though a prolonged sojourn in Azkaban, where human conversation was reduced to a minimum, did nothing to improve a person's voice. The sound of this voice was perfection: as seductively beautiful as the song of a potion simmering softly in a cauldron. Inside or outside Azkaban, Black couldn't hold a candle to it. Moreover, there was a lilt to it, as if the speaker was turning language itself into music.

'Well, Finrod, if you want a perfect harp,' said Lupin, 'we'll have to look for another solution...'

Swiftly and noiselessly Snape rounded the corner; how close would he be able to get before the werewolf would catch a sound? Looking at the two men walking down the corridor he saw that he had guessed right. The speaker with the voice was the stranger he had found in the dungeons. And here he was, strolling through Hogwarts and chatting with Lupin. In English.

Remembering that the stranger was a Legilimens of sorts Snape banned his dark suspicions and other secret thoughts to the deepest recesses of his mind, and took another step. The two before him halted and turned simultaneously. Of course. Werewolf ears, both of them.

'Good night, Severus,' Lupin said. On the lookout for wayward students?'

'And stray criminals,' retorted Snape. He glanced at the tall stranger, whose appearance matched his voice; compared to him, even Black in his prime would have counted as plain. Or Malfoy Sr., or the Dark Lord, while he was still Riddle. Remarkable, how many that looked fair turned out to be foul. A satisfactory thought.

'So that's why you have your wand out.' The werewolf bared his teeth in what some would call a smile. 'A wise precaution - though I don't think stray criminals would openly use the corridors.'

'Not all people are too careless for their own good, Lupin,' said Snape threateningly, keeping his wand pointed more or less at the stranger.

'Criminals?' The stranger's eyes were suspiciously bright. Snape wondered which illegal potions ingredients could bring about such an effect, and resolved to figure it out.

'There's an escaped prisoner at large,' Lupin explained to his companion. 'He's dangerous, but this place is well protected.'

Was it Snape's imagination, or did a shadow cross the stranger's face at these words? Ah, yes, he looked decidedly unhappy now. How interesting. 'But the protectors are outside the castle, while the criminal has managed to slip inside - though nobody knows how.' Snape stared at Lupin.

The werewolf stared back before turning to his companion again. 'That's why it is good to have a protector inside as well,' he told the stranger in an explanatory tone, indicating Snape.

Had he actually had the evil courage to suggest that Snape was a kind of Dementor? The Potions Master was speechless, and Lupin went on: 'By the way, Severus, do you happen to know where to find a good harp?'

At this unexpected opening, Snape's tongue untied itself. 'Well,' he said silkily, 'there's the harp Quirrell used to lull Fluffy asleep. You do know who Quirrell was, do you, Lupin? One of those unlucky fellows who taught Defence against the Dark Arts before you got the job. It almost looks as if it's jinxed,' he added as an afterthought. 'I mean the job. As for the harp, maybe Dumbledore knows where it is. Well, Lupin, Mr. - Finrod, wasn't it? Past time to continue my patrol. Good night.'

'Good night, sir - and before I forget: thank you for your potion,' the stranger said. 'Without it, I would probably be dead.'

_Perhaps you should be._ Snape nodded stiffly, but instead of replying he strode past them to round the nearest corner, still hoping to catch at least one student to be righteously indignant at.

18. _Sybill Trelawney_

Until now, she had never had any problems unfogging future deaths. If the person did die, no one seriously blamed her; for after all, Seers weren't the ones who brought fate about. If, on the other hand, the person failed to die everyone was too happy to bother - and she always took great care not to predict deaths that were in any way desirable, such as the demise of rich old people, if she was consulted by their heirs.

Whatever others might think of her, Sybill Trelawney was not as foggy as that.

This time, though, she was faced with a dilemma. She had truly seen that horrible Grim (looking through the window rather than crystal gazing, but this was a minor detail), and something told her this sighting was connected to the mysterious stranger. The trouble was that he was about the last person she wanted to die - with the possible exception of her current, most tolerant employer, whose death she never predicted even though it was easier to foresee than most things, given his age.

Albus Dumbledore, though, was ancient and would agree that he was unlikely to see many more summers. But the classical beauty she had seen in the hospital wing was young (about her own age, Sybill assured herself) and deserved to live long and perhaps happily ever after.

Snape had said that Mr. gorgeous wanted her to foretell his future. If he paid her a visit, should she be brutally honest and risk making him unhappy and afraid, or would it be better to be a little short-Sighted for once? Pulling her shawls closer around her thin body Sybill cast a handful of pungent-smelling herbs into the fire to clear her head. Then she bent towards her orb, hoping to catch a glimpse of her own impending decision.

Alas, the fog refused to lift; no crystal clarity tonight. What would she do if she were a person with no talent whatsoever for Divination, like for instance - and she grimaced - that little pedant Hermione Granger? (She would have to rid herself of the girl before Easter.) While she inhaled the herbal fumes drifting through her room a slight smile spread across her face. If she made her man unhappy he would be in want of comfort. And of course, Sybill Trelawney would be there to give it to him.

Tomorrow, she would invite him. She smiled dreamily.

_19. Remus Lupin_

_I have to tell him._ The problem was that he liked Finrod and feared the expression of shock and disgust that would inevitably appear on the other's face if he would be confronted with the ugly truth. Would the knowledge that he had done the right thing outweigh the hurt of being hated and despised, and rejected once again?

As Finrod was remarkably taciturn after their encounter with Snape, it was possible that he was aware of his fate but reluctant to talk about it- and who would blame him? Not Remus Lupin. _If he doesn't know I'm a werewolf - and how could he, when all he sees of me is my human form?_ - he won't be likely to broach the subject. If that were the case, it was quite simply Remus's moral duty to speak. What did he really know about his guest?

The answer was simple: too little.

Well, his guest wouldn't disappear overnight, Remus reassured himself; there was enough time to find out more about him first.

'Can I ask you a few things?' his companion suddenly spoke. 'This man, Severus Snape - I sensed distrust in him. Does he take me for - what was it, a "stray criminal"?'

Remus glanced aside and saw that Finrod looked curious, but not in the least upset or indignant. 'Severus doesn't know what to think of you,' he said. 'He's a suspicious man. Maybe he believes you're in league with this... escaped convict we were talking about.'

'Unlike you?'

An ambiguous question. 'Are you still reading my mind?' Remus wanted to know, feeling ill at ease. It would be terribly difficult for him not to think about this particular subject, and repress every memory of Padfoot. Maybe he could concentrate on Neville's boggart for a while... He bit his lip.

'I have not done so since I entered your rooms,' Finrod said, to Remus's relief. 'From now on, if I need a word, I will ask you. Anything else would be bad...'

'...mannered?' They had reached Remus's rooms now and halted outside the door.

'Yes.'

They went inside, both of them smiling. Closing the door Remus said: 'To answer your question - assuming you wanted to know if I take you for an accomplice of Siri... Black - no, I don't.' He grinned. 'You don't strike me as the criminal type. But... I would like to know more about you.'

When he saw Finrod's slight frown he hastened to add: 'But Not right away. It's past midnight. If Poppy knew I dragged you up the Astronomy Tower the day you were released from the hospital wing, she'd hex me into next year. Tomorrow's another day.'

Finrod sat down on the transformed sofa, the frown smoothened out. He seemed relieved; did he have something to hide, after all? Was Snape right to be suspicious? Damn! Remus liked Finrod, and likeable people should not be hiding dark secrets. Unfortunately, no one knew better than he did that having to hide a dark secret was an excellent reason to be a likeable person.

'So, want to take a shower before you go to sleep? Another bit of water magic to clean yourself?' he asked airily.

'Is it magic, if I can tell how it works?' Finrod countered, looking sly.

'Clever question, sayeth the teacher. Keep me informed of your findings. I know precious little about the arcane mysteries of plumbing. Most people don't need to know more than how to turn the various taps and handles.' Remus conjured up soap and a clean towel and showed his guest the bathroom. It was a clever question, he reflected, not nearly as rhetorical as it seemed. It could be fascinating to discuss magic with this somewhat unsettling person who was neither wizard nor Muggle. Provided there would be anything left to say once he had mustered the courage to bring up the Issue.

Next morning, he woke up at first light. As it was a Sunday, he could have stayed in bed well past dawn - except that he had a guest, a bad conscience and some residual post-transformation cramps that made his muscles twitch.

When he entered his sitting room, he saw Finrod standing at a window. He had pulled one of the dark red curtains a few inches aside and was gazing out, unmoving like a tree on a windless day. He wasn't breathing perceptibly and if he had worn a hooded cloak the colour of the curtains, he would have been virtually invisible. Remus stared at him, marvelling at his stillness. Then he saw from the corner of an eye that the guest bed had changed back into the old sofa some time during the night. He smiled wryly. Whenever anything larger than a teapot was involved, the only kind of transformation he was any good at, was involuntary. Admittedly, he had stopped doing his best when they told him that werewolves could never be Aurors; instead, he had concentrated on the subjects he really liked.

The honourable thing would be to offer Finrod his own bed, to compensate him for the lost hours of sleep. He took a step toward the window. Slowly, Finrod turned his head. His eyes, their glow slightly diminished at first, seemed to focus, and flared up again. Had he been asleep on his feet, like a Centaur?

'Good morning, Finrod. Sorry about the sofa,' Remus said. 'Can I offer you my bed?'

'Good morning, too, and thank you, but I am fully rested.' Finrod indicated the gap between the curtains. 'It would be good to go outside. If it were possible.'

He couldn't go as he pleased, if his presence was to remain secret. But Remus knew too well how it felt to be confined if you desired to run free. 'Not today,' he replied. 'It's Sunday, which means no classes, and too many students and teachers out there. Maybe tomorrow, if you avoid to come within sight of the classrooms.'

'Good! I would like to visit the lake, and the forest,' Finrod said eagerly.

Remus realised at once that he'd spoken prematurely. If Finrod strayed too far from the castle, he ran the risk of crossing the path of Dementor. A bad idea. 'On the other hand, I'm not sure if the Headmaster will agree. But there's a lot you can do inside the castle. I'll get you the harp Severus mentioned, so you can play. I can give you our alphabet, so you can study it.' He pulled his wand and crossed over to the hearth.

'Perhaps,' Finrod mused. 'Or I could study plumbing. But -'

He fell silent. Over the crackling noise of the newly lit fire Remus heard something tap insistently against the window. An owl? Who could be sending him owl-post?

But the scrawny, doleful looking bird, carried no message for him. It delivered a scroll, tied with a velvet ribbon and accompanied by a note from Madam Pomfrey. The scroll had been sent to the hospital wing but Poppy had sent it on to the person it was addressed to.

The message itself was from Sybill Trelawney. It contained an invitation, calligraphed in purple ink, for the Right Honourable Mr. Felagund. Would he like to visit her in the North Tower, and gaze into her crystal orb to have his future foretold?

20. _Hermione Granger_

She had been too deeply asleep to hear the other girls rise, wash, dress and leave the dormitory. All the same, when Hermione finally woke up she felt as if she hadn't slept more than a couple of hours. The temptation to stay in bed today was almost overwhelming. The only other living being in the room was Crookshanks, back from whatever he had been up to last night and dreaming on the windowsill now, the tip of his tail moving lazily .

She definitely needed more sleep, but she had so much homework to do that she couldn't afford to doze off. Hermione put a hand beneath her pillow, groping for her time-turner, a plan forming in her mind. If she turned it back until, say last midnight, she could climb the Astronomy Tower to make observations for the next class and then return to bed for a few more hours of sleep.

Filled with a renewed sense of purpose she sat up briskly. She would dress first (there was always a chance Snape would be prowling the corridors and if he was going to catch her, she wouldn't be wearing pyjamas). Then she would eat some of the biscuits stashed under her bed, take her writing equipment, turn back time, and sneak out.

Ten turns later Hermione was ready. The other girls in the dormitory were soundly asleep, the common room was dark and deserted, and she wouldn't have to deal with sir Cadogan until she returned. Not that he would pose a problem. He never challenged sweet young maidens, not even if they weren't really fair to look at. Munching a biscuit she exited the Gryffindor Tower.

The corridors were, as always at this time, eerily silent. No footsteps, not even her own, for she was carrying her shoes under her arm. With her wand drawn Hermione set out for the Astronomy Tower. The endeavour was not without risk; if she'd been in Harry's shoes, she'd have thought thrice before venturing alone into the night (though Harry himself wouldn't even have thought twice.) But it wasn't as if Black was after -

Hermione jumped. There they were, the much-dreaded footsteps. Snape! She froze, looking for a place to hide, but there were no convenient niches or staircases within sight. Breathing deeply, she straightened to face the worst...

... and felt her knees going weak with relief. The footsteps, more than one set, as she heard now, were not coming her way. She followed them on soundless feet. The entrance to the Astronomy Tower was around the next corner, but the feet were in the corridor leading from it. If the owners would look back she would be within full view - and it would be difficult to open the door to the tower without making any noise.

Just when she decided to wait, it became clear that she couldn't. There were footsteps behind her as well. One set only, yet two feet to many. Steeling herself, Hermione decided it was worth the risk and fled forward. She rounded the corner, her heart thudding fiercely.

Ahead, she saw two figures, engaged in conversation. One was unmistakably Professor Lupin, patched robes, greying brown locks and all. The other was dressed in blue, with a long, golden braid reaching down almost to the waist, but to judge by the gait, the height, and the sound of the voice drifting back to her, it was not a woman. For the briefest of moments, Hermione thought it was Gilderoy Lockhart, returned to Hogwarts with his memory restored. She gasped. He hadn't come to replace - but no. This couldn't be Lockhart, could it? Never had she seen such sun-kissed hair.

She froze. The unknown man's steps seemed to falter; had he noticed her presence She could not have moved if her life had depended on it.

But only for a moment. The footsteps behind her were closing in. Shaking off her paralysis she darted towards the Tower and grabbed the door handle, wishing fervently that the man with the golden braid wouldn't look back. Without checking if he did she slipped inside and closed the door, shutting out all sounds from the corridor.

Yet she could not help wondering when Professor Lupin's companion could be. For some reason, he struck a chord with her.

(TBC)

_Curious question: is anyone still reading this? If not, I wonder if it's worth continuing to publish the story. _

_BTW, thanks to the people who reviewed the first two chapters._


	6. Chapter 6

_CHAPTER 6 _

_20. Finrod Felagund_

They ate breakfast in the wizard's sitting room. Remus toasted some bread and heated a kettle of water for the brew called tea with a few flicks of his wizard's wand, thereby confirming Finrod's hypothesis that one of the purposes of magic was to save time and labour.

When he brought this up, Remus nodded and asked him if he would cover distances by walking if he had wings.

Finrod's reaction that he might if he wanted to see the world from a different angle, surprised the wizard. He had to concede that there was much to be said for such a viewpoint but added that he was convinced the other was not so oblivious to the value of time that he would prefer walking if speed was imperative. Which Finrod had to admit was true enough.

After that they discussed the devices called toilet and shower, and Finrod was surprised to find that he appeared to have a better grasp of them than Remus, who confessed that this so called technology was almost as incomprehensible to him as magic was to Muggles. If Muggle-born wizards had not introduced these things to the Wizarding World, he said, they would have had to take recourse to scourgify charms or old-fashioned washing basins - and there was much to be said for a hot shower.

To that, Finrod could only agree. However, when he remarked that inventing devices that anyone could operate without knowing how they worked was perhaps one of the Muggle ways of saving time. Remus seemed to be taken aback a little. When he asked if each generation of wizards had to master approximately the same spells and magical applications, Remus became very pensive. So Finrod refrained from pointing out how requiring that everyone invent their own wheel might have the effect of counteracting the time saving effect that the use of wheels had on the world at large. For someone like him it was too easy to talk condescendingly about the attempts of various kinds of mortals to deal with the limited life spans allotted to them. Instead, he brought up the owl message.

'Would you advise me to pay the lady Sybill a visit?' he asked. He failed to understand why this made Remus look unhappy. The lady had already seen him, so what was the trouble?

'What Sybill foresees, doesn't always come true,' Remus replied. 'You may be wasting your time, Finrod.'

These people truly had issues with time, yet this sounded too much like a subterfuge. 'I know that true foresight never arrives on command,' Finrod said. 'But would it not be unkind to decline the invitation?'

Remus cast him a curious glance. 'You're familiar with divination and predicting the future?'

It seemed to Finrod that the things Remus mentioned were not quite the same as foresight, which was notoriously unpredictable. Nor did it seem very likely that wizards had knowledge about the future at their beck and call - not even the Valar possessed such power. But that was hardly what this was about, he realised. Remus had distracted him before, and Finrod began to see a pattern. Deciding that the wizard would not get away with it this time he said: 'Do you fear that I will see the wrong things if I go?'

Remus laughed mirthlessly. 'You're as cunning as Albus Dumbledore... The chance is small, but yes, I'm afraid something... scary might show itself in Sybill's crystal ball. Every once in a while, a true glimpse of the future lights up in the present. You refuse to call yourself a wizard, but you seem to be as aware of this as any of us.'

Finrod nodded, knowing better than to press on. He was sorely tempted to search the other's mind again. Like two days before, in the bathroom of the hospital wing, Remus did not look well, but other than that his face yielded little; few mortals displayed such composure - and not many Eldar either, for that matter. But when Remus rose and went to the nearest window, gazing out, Finrod decided that he would not intrude upon his inner struggle.

The silence stretched, until Remus turned away from the window. 'I have to tell you something,' he said hoarsely, 'though you'll probably hate me when I'm done.' He sighed. 'As you told me, your injuries were caused by a werewolf. I don't know if you are aware of it, but werewolf bites have dire consequences.' He paused.

When Finrod did not make any comments he went on: 'A person who is bitten by such a creature but survives the attack, will also turn into a werewolf. It could be... I fear this is what will happen to you, next time the moon is full. To make things worse' - for a moment, Finrod saw the naked torment in his eyes, and his heart went out to the wizard - 'I... I'm afraid the werewolf who bit you is with you in this room.'

'You are a werewolf?' This was the weirdest thing Finrod had heard so far. He wondered if the wizard was in his right mind, and what could have happened to his sanity. 'You roam this castle once a moon in the shape of a ferocious monster, biting those you find on your path?' 

'No. This was an incident. It wasn't supposed to happen. I don't even remember biting you, but -' Remus checked himself. After a brief silence he resumed: 'But everything points to me. I am the only werewolf at Hogwarts.' Though his face was pale and his voice strained, the wizards did not avoid Finrod's gaze. 'I can only beg your forgiveness, though I'll understand if you can't give it to me.'

Whatever Finrod had expected, not this. He remembered the werewolf in Sauron's dungeons on Tol-in-Gaurhoth only too well. To reconcile this image of horror with the kind and careworn man in front of him demanded a mental leap, further than any he had ever had to make.

_He is delusional,_ he thought, and then: _But what if it works that way here? This is the strangest place you have ever seen,_ and then: _You ought to be ashamed of the misjudgement that tied your tongue, two days ago, son of Finarfin. He has been torturing himself needlessly because of your silence. And to think that people called you Wisdom once._

'Remus,' he said urgently, 'you did not bite me.'

Shaking his head Remus said: 'How can you tell? Do you know what I look like as a werewolf?'

'No.' It was still beyond belief that this man would change into a monster once every moon. 'But I killed the one I fought.'

'You killed it? How? What weapon did you have?' The wizard returned to his seat with carefully measured steps, and Finrod could not help admiring the way he struggled to retain his composure and dignity.

'I had no weapon.' Finrod hesitated. 'I bit its throat.' A horrible thing to say. A gruesome thing to have done. Little dignity in that. But it would be bearable, if only he could be certain he had fulfilled his Oath and saved Beren's life.

Again, Remus shook his head, still refusing the hope held out to him. 'But it's impossible to kill such... creatures that way. And what happened to the body? Where is this dead werewolf, if it wasn't me?'

_Where I was, before I turned up here._ But Finrod suspected this would not suffice... 'Remus,' he said, 'I swear that I sank my teeth into the beast. Did you see any bite marks on yourself, two mornings ago? Anything to suggest you were in a fight?'

Remus blinked. 'No. I didn't.' He massaged his temples, as if to rub Finrod's words through skin and bone into his skull. Finally, he looked up. 'Finrod, you've got no idea how grateful I am for your words.' Suddenly, his tired face twisted into a smile. 'So, all I've left to fear now is that the Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures will decide to live up to its name.'

'Dangerous Creatures? Disposal?' Finrod asked, hoping his ugly suspicions were no more than just that.

'If you transform into a werewolf, next time the moon is full, Snape will probably find a way to incriminate me. Innocent or not, I remain the most likely culprit. I'll get the blame. This will be considered proof that I'm truly a Dark Creature. Unless you can prove your story, the Wizarding World will cure me of my darkness by separating my head from my trunk. With an axe,' Remus added, almost as an afterthought.

Dark Creature? _Foul creatures of evil._ His own thoughts about the werewolves bred by the Black Foe. Finrod was at a loss for words, and suddenly he thought he understood the other's tired look, the many lines in his otherwise still youthful face, his greying hair, his frayed appearance.

_I will not change into a werewolf,_ he wanted to comfort Remus, not fooled for a moment by the man's black humour. _This reality is not mine; I am different. Have no fear, my friend._ But Finrod found that he could not say it, for how could he be wholly certain that it was true? If Sauron's beast had nothing in common with the werewolves here, how could it be that Severus Snape's antidote had countered the workings of its venom so well? 

Finrod bent forward to squeeze Remus's knee, hoping the gesture was not futile. It was as clear as sunlight; there was only one thing he could do to avoid endangering the wizard's life. He would have to leave this place before Isil was full again. What this would mean for his chances to return to where he came from was impossible to say.

21. Sirius Black__

Bless that Kneazle. Clever animal; must be the familiar of an intelligent student. He'd put it to the test: find the password to the Gryffindor Tower. You find it, mate, and bring it to me!

He had to get in. Wormtail - fuck you, Wormtail! Curse you, traitor! Scum of the earth! Having his soul sucked out would be a mercy, except that he didn't have one since he sold it to the Dark - Wormtail was in there, acting the innocent rat. Rat! They should have known, should have seen it coming, I should have seen it coming, I was always so clever. Don't make me laugh. Noble stag, faithful dog, and little Peter the sycophant, little Peter Rat.

The Kneazle had proposed to eat it for him but no. Wormtail was his to kill. He imagined the rat between his jaws, ready to be crunched. That would be the ideal way. He hoped he could avoid scaring the boy to death, but fright didn't kill. Fear could, in the long run. But you had to know the Dementors to know, and the boy didn't. Grim determination. Sorry redhead, you're in for a shock.

It had been a long run, all the way to Hogwarts, on the run, chasing, chased, hunting, hunted, no rest, no respite, certainly not after seeing Harry with those - 

Muggles. _Hard not to think black pride and pureblood prejudice, watching them with his godson. Horrors. Dementors in Muggle clothes. Harry had to be rescued from them. Dumbledore should have known better, but Dumbledore also believed him guilty. And why not; he was a killer but for young Harry's father - James. Oh, James, I failed you, failed you, failed you. I deserved what I got. Murderer. No wonder they thought I was guilty._

Moony, too. Moony's here. Keeps his mouth shut - always did so and this time, too, thank all the powers in the universe. Curse you, Moony, for believing me guilty. Curse me, for thinking it was you. No - forgive me. I wish I could show myself to you. But I'm not insane enough to take the chance.

The black dog transformed into a man, squatting among the bushes of the Forest. The smell of the forest faded and its sounds were dulled. But all around him, the black and white and grey hues of canine vision exploded into a blaze of colours: green grass, blue sky, the rich browns of trees, the yellow tones of the building blocks. The shimmering flux surrounding Hogwarts that was clearly perceptible to his dog's eyes vanished, and everything became solid and harsh.

The morning was too bright and hard for him, and he flinched.

After a long moment, he transformed back into a dog.

22. _Remus Lupin_

'Leave this place?' the Headmaster repeated. His head had popped up in the fireplace some time during the lengthy silence following Remus's last words, as if he had been waiting for the most depressing moment to show himself and be invited for a round of tea.

It had taken them less than one cup to bring Dumbledore up to date; he had nodded a couple of times but not interrupted either of them, though his eyes had widened a little at Finrod's claim to have slain his werewolf. But now, he looked as surprised as Remus felt at Finrod's announcement that he intended to leave..

'Of course,' Finrod said, his voice less composed than his face. 'Only five people know I'm here. Two of them are in this room and you can tell the others, more or less truthfully, that I decided to depart.' He threw Remus a smile that did not reach his eyes. 'You'll be safe.'

_And you'll be lost,_ Remus thought. It was obvious that Finrod had no idea where to go, and just as obvious that he was determined to do what he considered to be the Right Thing. At that moment, Remus's lingering suspicions concerning the other's good intentions dissolved like a hex lifted by a finite incantatem.

Apparently, Albus Dumbledore didn't share Finrod's opinion. 'Assuming I'd be willing to loose an inexperienced werewolf on the world,' he said, 'where would you propose to go, Mr. Felagund?'

'I'll find something. And though it's far from certain that I'll change into a werewolf, I fully intend to stay away from people, next time the moon is full.' If anything, Finrod sounded a little pedantic now.

'If it's true what I'm told, you don't know this country.'

'It's true. Though I do know the stars that shine down on it.'

'The same stars shine down on many places. But they won't tell you where to go if you don't have the lie of the land. How will you know there's no one near you?' When Finrod remained silent the Headmaster turned to his Defence teacher: 'Does he know yet what it means to be a werewolf, Remus?' Dumbledore eyed him gravely over his half-moon spectacles.

And so, whether he liked it or not, Remus had to describe the painful change from man to beast, and the bloodthirsty monster he was forced to become, once every four weeks. 'You will turn into one of the most dangerous and lethal creatures in the world,' he told Finrod. 'Do you really want to run free and risk taking the life - or the humanity - of an innocent?' _As I did repeatedly during my last years here at Hogwarts, irresponsible fool that I was?_

'There's a potion,' Dumbledore added, 'that will allow you to keep your own mind, though it won't prevent your transformation. But in order to take it, you'll have to stay here, as you must drink it freshly brewed.' He poured himself more tea, added some lemon and swirled the contents around in his cup.

Finrod had paled, but he didn't flinch. 'And if I leave at once after taking this potion?'

'You will transform too close to the castle not to be traced back to it,' Remus said quietly; Finrod was no wizard, so presumably he would be unable to disappear by magical means. 'And you may get lost and transform back among people who hate and hunt werewolves.

For a while, no one spoke. It was Finrod who broke the silence. 'Then it seems that I will have to choose between an innocent I don't know and one I do know.'

Dumbledore took a sip of tea, and Remus saw a droplet fall into his silvery beard. 'Assuming,' he said, setting down his cup, 'that you have a choice. I -'

Finrod raised his hand in a gesture that struck Remus as nothing less than regal, so he wasn't too surprised when Dumbledore actually fell silent. 'Before you challenge my freedom to protect a friend, Headmaster of Hogwarts,' Finrod said, his voice suddenly gone stern, 'I would question your conviction that I will turn into a werewolf.' He cast a brief glance toward Remus, who was almost shocked to hear the other claim his friendship, as if his condition hadn't caused Finrod's current predicament. 'I'm not human. Can immortals turn into werewolves? If they can't, we're all wasting words.'

Dumbledore, who had blinked at Finrod's change of tone, regained his composure. 'To my best knowledge, there are no records of immortals becoming werewolves,' he replied. 'But this doesn't mean it never happened. And how am I to know you are truly immortal?'

'He's got these pointed ears,' Remus cut in before Finrod could reply, 'and he heals faster than anyone.'

'I'm afraid that isn't conclusive evidence, Remus.' Dumbledore turned back to Finrod. 'But you are mistaken if you think I am prepared to sacrifice Remus on the altar of a greater good.'

'Glad to hear it,' Remus said lightly. The Headmaster, he told himself, would be too sorry to lose his third Defence against the Dark Arts teacher in as many years not to do his utmost to prevent it. Maybe he had enough of a hold on his Potions Master to keep him from owling the Disposal Committee.

Not allowing Finrod to leave Hogwarts was sound policy, too, from Dumbledore's point of view. As long as nobody knew how he had entered the castle, it was better to keep the stranger within sight, just in case he was Dark (and Sirius's accomplice). That Remus no longer believed so was irrelevant.

But at the moment, all this cold reasoning dissolved before the glow Finrod had kindled inside him by calling him a friend. It was a tentative little fire; he would have to tend it carefully. Right now, it was this modest flame that encouraged him to say: 'It could be there's another way out of this - quandary. If we were able to find out how Finrod ended up here, the perfect solution might present itself.' _And if it doesn't and I have to face the worst, I swear I'll clear my conscience by telling the Headmaster all about Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs._

He smiled at Finrod and added. 'Not that I'm eager to see a friend leave so soon.'

Finrod smiled back, though the smile faded more quickly from his eyes than it left his lips.

'I've been thinking the same,' Dumbledore said with sudden briskness. 'There are several solutions to our present problem, but this one does seem the best for all parties involved. So, Mr. Felagund, don't you agree it would be helpful if you told us more about yourself, and about what happened to you before you appeared in our dung-'

He was interrupted by a series of staccato raps on the door.

(TBC)

_A/N: I was happy to discover people are actually still following this story; thanks to everyone who reviewed - even though for some reason not all of the reviews show up; I did get yours, **Jessica** & **Maja**! _


	7. Chapter 7

_CHAPTER 7_

_23. Severus Snape_

Entering Lupin's rooms Snape froze, clutching the harp. He hadn't expected to find Dumbledore here, and the Headmaster's raised eyebrows made him feel like a court jester about to entertain a demanding old despot and two of his more roughshod barons. Nor did it help that the werewolf was gazing at him like he had done the day after Neville's boggart lesson, and that the too good-looking stranger - coldly beautiful was the phrase that came to mind - appraised the instrument with the critical eye of a connoisseur.

The idea, born soon after Snape remembered where the harp was, had seemed excellent last night before he went to sleep and still workable this morning during breakfast. He would present this Mr. Felagund with the harp and set up a conversation (about music, if necessary), into which he would cleverly insert a few innocent sounding queries that might yield incriminating answers. He knew how to go about. Lupin's presence made no difference; the werewolf disliked him anyway, and if the stranger would give himself away it would be interesting to watch Lupin's reaction.

Dumbledore was another matter, though. The Headmaster would no doubt see him through, most likely disapprove of his prying and deftly steer the conversation away from deeper waters toward the shallows of blandness and inanity. But there was no way back now. Schooling his face Snape greeted the three of them with a stiff nod and took a few steps further into the room before he turned to address Mr. Felagund. 

'You wanted a harp,' he said without further ado. 'Would this be right?' He held the instrument at arm's length.

Mr. Felagund rose. 'Thank you,' he said, accepting it with a polite nod of the head. He turned the around and stroked the soundbox with his index finger. 'This may be precisely what I need.'

'Music,' said Dumbledore, smiling. 'A magic beyond all we do here. So you play?'

'I do,' Felagund replied, plucking one of the strings and at the same time humming softly.

The effect was astounding. The note, in itself neither loud or resounding, rippled across the room, reverberating, lingering, and spreading along the walls, the ceiling and the floor to turn them into sounding boards, until the single harp string had became a chorus of voices that all sang the same song in subtly different ways. The werewolf straightened in his chair, and for a moment it looked as if he would give in to his canine instincts and howl.

Another note, and another one, the sounds building until the unwelcome thought crossed Snape's mind that if he were a wolf, he would surely howl. Suddenly he felt silly, hovering like he did in the middle of the room, and as he hated feeling silly he decided to leave. When Felagund's bright gaze came to rest on him, though, he felt... not precisely attacked, yet in some way challenged.

While he was still hesitating he heard Lupin say: 'Please, sit down, Severus - and Snape found himself in the last unoccupied chair in the room. He folded his arms across his chest and waited for the things to come.

'The Headmaster stroked his beard. 'You make me want to hear more,' he said, 'but maybe later? You were going to tell us about yourself, Mr. Felagund.' _How can he not want to hear more?_

'I am,' was the reply. 'I will do so using this harp; its song will tell you what my tongue can't say well enough yet in yours.' Then he sat down as well and began to play.

Snape hadn't known that he had wanted him to sing until he heard the fullness of that voice again. The beauty of it took his breath away; if anything it seemed to have increased since last night's encounter in the corridor.

At first he did not understand the words, but after a while the language shaped itself into images and the song seemed to encompass the universe and its history. Briefly he wondered how Lupin's sitting room could possibly contain the world, but the force of the music swept all such questions away. He saw how the earth was made and how disharmony entered into it and marred it. Light grew and blossomed like flowers on trees and was caught in living stars by the greatest of artists, a spirit of fire, the proudest son of a prideful people - but darkness apprehended it.

The proud ones rebelled, rejecting their elders, slaying their kin, denouncing a race they feared and detested without having met it. The music darkened as they were cursed. Yet they were both wronged and wrong, and Snape wanted to cry out in fury, in sorrow, in shame, for he was in the midst of it and part of it: a rebel with a cause yet knowing he had, of his own free will, chosen to follow a false lead and therefore deserved the curse.

It was almost like being in someone's Pensieve - except that he was no bystander here but part of the drama, and it swept him along. The harp strings rang loudly, voices cried and swore, and he saw the passions flare on the fair and haughty faces of those around him.

He was there when some turned traitor and more yet were betrayed. He perished many times over crossing a hell of ice, a freezing waste of time and lives. But carried by the song he also survived to help build new realms and to meet new people in old lands, lit by the familiar lights of sun and moon under the shadow of a dark lord, a corrupter of souls wearing an iron crown of tyranny.

He was there when his King was betrayed by his people because of an oath that he had sworn, a life-debt that had to be fulfilled. Valuing honour over safety he chose to defend love rather than to protect his own hide. His guilt unravelled his part of the music, and he died in the dark by the teeth of a werewolf, mortally afraid yet faithful to his cause, though he didn't even know whether his sacrifice had been in vain or a saving grace.

The music ended, the song fell silent, the images dissolved. Snape found himself in the familiar shabbiness of Lupin's sitting room, feeling a keen sense of loss akin to physical pain. It was as if he had just emerged from a living dream or even a vision, and he knew he had been caught in the web of an enchantment unlike any other, so powerful that he couldn't have disentangled himself to save his life. It was frightening and exhilarating, wonderful and terrible, something to cling to even when it could be his undoing.

A magic beyond all they did here. 

Snape wondered if it had affected the others as strongly as it had hit him. He also wondered what part the Headmaster had seen himself enact in the drama. The old man sat there, blinking against the light as if it was too bright after the gloom in which the song had immersed them toward the end .

The werewolf was blinking and rubbing his eyes as if he had trouble rousing himself from sleep. He looked stricken, his features more deceptively human than ever, but Snape was willing to bet that Lupin had acted the monster that mauled the King and his companions. The King who was, in fact, no other than Felagund.

Snape shook his head to dispel the last shrouds and shreds of sound. He gritted his teeth. _I refuse to be swayed by this sorcery!_ He felt a strong urge to believe what he had witnessed, even now that the incantation had ended. But the uncanny thing was that Felagund had woven the shadows of the Potions Master's dark past into his song, bypassing all his mental wards. 

Outraged at himself, Snape wished he had tried to access the other's memories in order to verify his story, instead of letting himself be carried away. Had the Headmaster tried, at least? Was this enchanter able to keep a great wizard like Albus Dumbledore out of his head?

It was Lupin who finally broke the silence, his voice grating after the beauty of Felagund's song. 'So you were somehow ... spirited away without even knowing if you'd managed to save Beren?' Trust a romantic fool of a Gryffindor to focus on that part of the story.

Felagund's hand lay limply across the harp strings. 'How can he live?' He bent his head. 'I swore to protect him, but I failed. The past caught up with me to destroy someone who put his trust in me.'

Had Lupin just cringed? As Snape was gazing at Dumbledore he only saw the werewolf from the corner of his eye, and he wasn't sure.

The Headmaster, who appeared to have recovered, turned to Felagund. 'All the more reason,' he replied, 'to help you find a way back to where you belong, wherever it may be - in this world or another one that exists side by side with it. Your injuries are healed. If we could send you back, you'd stand a far better chance to protect your friend.'

_Why am I not surprised? Apparently neither of them considers doubting the fellow._ Once more it was up to him to remain suspicious. Paradoxically, Snape felt justified by the enchanter's own words about failed trust. Someone had to remain watchful, to think the worst of others. Who better than Severus Snape, who knew the worst about himself?

'But how?' asked the enchanter. 'How could you send me back?'

'We'll think of something!' Lupin said with the same disgusting optimism that had to be the main reason why he kept despoiling the face of the earth. Something that not even his bad experiences with trust and friendship had been able to change.

Felagund turned to Dumbledore. 'Would you advise me to consult your Divination teacher?' 

The Potions Master snorted, and earned himself a mildly reproachful look from his Headmaster. True, he had to admit that visiting the tart could be useful to identify the impossibilities and dead ends.

'I would,' the Headmaster replied, rising to his feet. 'After all, there's no foretelling when foresight will occur.' Smiling a watery smile he went to the fireplace. 'Meanwhile, I will try to recapitulate everything I ever knew about Displacement Magic.' 

While Dumbledore flooed back to his own office, Snape stood as well. 'I'd consult my Dark Arts books if I were you, Lupin. They may come in handy in a case like this.'

'Alas.' The werewolf shook his head as if it didn't sit loosely enough on his shoulders yet. 'I had to sell most of them some time ago when I ran out of dog food. But maybe you'd be so kind to lend me yours, Severus?' he added, and if Snape hadn't known better he'd have sworn that Lupin was merely being polite.

'I'm a Potions Master,' he retorted, smirking. 'Why should I own any Dark Arts books?' It wasn't until he closed the door behind him that he thought of the harp. But he wasn't going back for it. Leaving it where it was provided him with an excellent opportunity to pay the enchanter another visit. But this time he'd do it while Lupin was away teaching classes.

24. _Finrod Felagund_

'I'm not sure anyone here could have done what you just did. Not even the Headmaster,' Remus said, a considerable silence later. 'You may not call yourself a wizard, but what you did qualifies as magic to me.'

'It is what happens when I tell a tale, whether my own or someone else's.' Finrod patted the harp. It was a fine enough instrument, though given the right tools he knew that he could improve on it. But it was unlikely that this place would contain the right tools, and he doubted they had a forge. He stroked the instrument, feeling the texture of the wood, probing the core. Good, honest wood. _I wish I had some to work with._

'Does this instrument do for you what wands do for us? Does it work like a conduit? Help you to focus?'

Finrod thought for a moment, trying to grasp what Remus could mean by that. 'The art of telling tales does not demand music,' he said at last. 'I could have shown all this without accompanying myself, even without singing. The instrument adds beauty. Every well-placed, well-played note enhances and enriches Creation.'

Remus' blank gaze made it clear that the wizard considered this a vague answer. 'You're a strange man,' he said.

'Man? We call ourselves Eldar. The people of the stars.'

'Yes,' Remus said as if this did not surprise him in the least, and then: 'You were their King. So I suppose I'll have to address you as Your Majesty from now on.'

It sounded like a quip, but knowing Remus a little by now Finrod suspected he might be joking to conceal something else. He hoped it was not awe or adoration. 'I was only one of their kings. And were is the right word. They thrust me from my own gates; I have little majesty left.' He laid the harp aside. 'That curse, Remus - it truly caught up with me.'

'Oh, I know what it is to be cursed. Let's stick to "Finrod" then.' Remus smiled hesitantly. 'Do you - do you have more stories to tell?'

The impatience of mortals... But Finrod was not convinced that everything he had told had truly sunk in. 'Not now,' he said. Reliving his life and recounting his fate and that of his companions had shaken him quite badly and the pain of having failed Beren and his love was as keen as ever. 'Shouldn't we inform Sybill Trelawney that I accept her kind invitation?'

They went late that night to avoid meeting students. Finrod doubted very much that he would be able to travel by fireplace, and Remus did not dispute this. So they climbed the winding stairs of yet another tower and arrived on a dimly lit landing beneath a circular trap door bearing a brass plaque. As Finrod had spent most of the afternoon learning his letters - and discovering what an excellent teacher his host was - he attempted to decipher the words on the plaque.

The script they used here was neither beautiful nor logical; Finrod felt a grudging admiration for Fëanor and his tengwar (as well as the usual regret for so much brilliance gone to waste). Unlike his uncle, the people who had devised these letters had obviously missed the connection between voiced and voiceless consonants formed in the same manner, while the sound principle that one sign had best represent one sound must have been lost in the course of changeable mortal history. That the letters were easy to learn, especially for someone boasting the memory of the Eldar, seemed to be their saving grace. 'S,' he began, 'y, b... The name of the teacher?'

'Good guess,' said Remus, his eyes twinkling. 'And the rest?'

Disomething... teasomething... 'Divination teacher.'

'Quick thinking for someone who claims he's got a lot of time.'

The trapdoor creaked. Overhead, a crescent moon of blood red light appeared, slowly growing larger until the opening gaped wide and the moon was full. _Preoccupied with the phases of Isil, son of Finarfin?_ Finrod thought, just before the anything but moonlike face of Sybill Trelawney drifted into view. The scent of burning herbs invaded his nose. He found himself wondering if he was supposed to fly through the opening when the answer descended in the shape of a silvery ladder.

'My dearest Mr. Felagund,' breathed a misty voice. (She had not sounded like that in the hospital wing). 'I knew you were waiting below.' (She must have heard them talk.) 'Do come up, please.'

Finrod clambered up to a cluttered, overheated room strewn with small round tables, chairs and poufs and lit by lamps draped with crimson gauze. The heavy curtains were closed, which was a pity, as he would have liked to cast a look outside. The fire blazed. Everywhere along the walls were shelves crammed with shining, moonlike orbs, delicate cups, and candle stubs, with small bunches of herbs arranged between them. The Divination teacher mostly resembled a clothes stand hung with bright shawls and gaudy baubles; she flashed and tinkled with every movement. Some of the beads around her neck looked like tiny teeth.

Through the circular opening Finrod said to Remus, who remained on the landing below: 'Won't you come up?'

'Does he have to?' murmured Sybill in his ear. 'I foresee no changes in _his_ situation and he doesn't want me to read his future anyway.'

'Do I have to?' mouthed Remus from below. 'I can wait for you down here.'

Finrod decided to let him escape. 'Thank you, but I'll find my way back. There's no need to stay.'

'Mind the moving stairs then.' Remus raised a hand in salute and left. Finrod suspected he'd find him waiting at the foot of the stairs.

The Divination teacher closed the trapdoor. She indicated a chair at a tiny table with a very large moon in the middle. 'Please, sit down. Make yourself comfortable. You shall need it when I read your future.' She threw another handful of herbs into the fire. 'Tea?'

Finrod declined politely, though he had nothing against the brew in itself. It was just the quantity they drank here.

Sybill poured herself a cup from a pot with large flower motives and took the chair opposite him. 'First show me your hand, Mr Felagund.'

He held it out. 'Please call me Finrod, my lady.'

'Sybill.' She took the hand eagerly in both of hers and turned the palm upward; her hands felt a little clammy. 'My inner eye tells me you're unmarried, Finrod,' she announced, tracing his life line with a lazy fingertip. (Did people here also use rings to symbolise love-bonds?) 'Yet maybe you will find bliss yet.'

How wonderful. Maybe was such a malleable concept. Finrod, whose attention was focused on the round object in front of him, dismissed her words as a warming up. He pointed. 'Is this a seeing stone, my lady?'

Behind the pieces of glass that enlarged her eyes to insect proportions, Sybill blinked. Unless she was batting her eyelashes at him. 'Ah,' she said. 'I knew a man like you would be able to come up with an original name.'

'One can gaze into it and speak with others who have a similar stone, even if they are many days away?'

'True seers use this to catch glimpses of the future.' Not a palantir then. 'Your future, in this case,' the Divination teacher added, lowering her voice and bending forward. 'Ah... I see a lady...' She gazed up at him, a moist gleam in those huge eyes, her equally moist lips curved in a smile that probably tried to be endearingly shy but turned out to be embarrassingly sheepish.

Finrod winced. Should he have known this was behind her invitation? How to guide her down to earth without making her land too roughly? He sighed emphatically. 'A lady? Is she alone? This must be my betrothed. Since we parted, she is ever in my thoughts and I dearly wish to return to her.'

Abruptly, Sybill let go of his hand. She did not speak, and neither did he, until the silence began to gather the weight of the universe unto itself.

Nodding at the crystal in front of him Finrod said: 'Does your m - orb also show glimpses of the past, my lady? A few days ago, I was... transported to this place without knowing how and why. Could you... would you be able to uncover the truth?' He peered into the shining, round object. Briefly, it seemed to acquire a life of its own, flaring, flames leaping, reminding him of the fiery hearts of Fëanor's palantiri, in Valinor behind the Encircling Mountains. He knew, though, that it was but the reflection of the firelight. 'Or am I asking too much?'

'The truth,' Sybill muttered, 'is many-faceted like a crystal.'

Observing her thin, suddenly tense face Finrod knew without having to read her mind that Sybill could not help him, that she could see less in that orb of hers than his own sister Saw in a bowl of water, and that she was little more than a pathetic fraud. He rose; the herbal fumes and the heat in the room were becoming oppressive. 'Forgive me, my lady. I should have told you what I hoped to hear when I accepted your invitation.' What else could he say? Ah, yes. 'I shall not waste any more of your time.' He rose to leave.

'I see a wolf. I see a hound. I see a maiden,' Sybill spoke abruptly, her voice gone harsh, her gaze distant, her posture rigid. Finrod stopped in his tracks.

'Wolf and hound shall struggle fiercely,' the Divination teacher went on. 'The hound prevails; the wolf runs; the doomed one shall live, the deceiver flee to his dark master. The maiden holds the key to that which was wrought in the past and must come undone. The maiden... holds the key...'

She slumped in her chair. Finrod eyed her thoughtfully. He ought to have known. True foresight was never crystal clear.

Suddenly, Sybill straightened. Her voice, more normal now, held a sliver of resentment when she said: 'Poor man. Beware the grim.'

'What is a grim?'

'A grim is a harbinger of death,' replied the Divination teacher. 'It appears in the shape of a large black dog. It has been sighted near Hogwarts. I fear that you shall see it, and die.'

(TBC)

A/N **Kyer**, sorry to disappoint you, but this is no Snape/Someone Else story. Nor a Lupin/Someone Else story, for that matter. It's genfic.


	8. Chapter 8

_CHAPTER 8_

_25. Hermione Granger_

She slept contentedly after her visit to the Astronomy Tower, certain in the knowledge of having achieved more than was required of a third-year.

Sunday was a productive day; she had ample time to work out her findings of the previous night, study for the latest Defence essay, practise a number of charms, have another less than pleasant encounter with Ron ('No, I'm not going to lock Crookshanks into my dorm and it wouldn't work anyway; he's clever enough to dart out when someone else enters') and listen to Harry grumbling again about the confiscation of his Firebolt ('I acted in your best interest, Harry, and you know it!') Dinner was no success and Hermione went to bed early, knowing that her Monday would be two hours longer than everyone else's. Unfortunately, sleep was slow in coming.

On Monday, she crammed The Silmarillion into her schoolbag, as she had been doing for several weeks now. The additional weight almost broke her back, but it was worth it. In Potions class she was usually done early (whispered instructions to Neville Longbottom included) and though five to ten minutes wasn't enough for serious study, it was just right for a few pages of lighter reading. A most efficient use of time. She had charmed the cover to look like a Potions text she had seen in the Library (though she hadn't had the opportunity to read it yet), in case Snape would grow suspicious and come flitting to her desk.

Until now he hadn't, but today her luck finally ran out. Hermione quickly closed the book before Snape was halfway, looking pointedly from him to her cauldron in a bold attempt to redirect his interest. But he went straight for The Silmarillion. Her throat went dry.

'_The Benefits and Side Effects of Sedatives and Sleeping Draughts_, by Polveria Mortar,' he read in his most disdainful voice. 'Not a subject we will be dealing with this year, miss Granger. Nor do I remember including it in the school curriculum. The author is a charlatan who has the audacity to suggest the Wizarding World could benefit from mass-produced Muggle remedies, and I have no idea what it's doing in our library. Maybe' - and he cast a sarcastic glance in Ron's direction - 'you ought to show this to Mr. Weasley senior, who undoubtedly will feel tempted to poison himself with such pulverised dung.'

Some Slytherins snickered, Malfoy loudest of all. Ron looked both furious and embarrassed. She felt sorry for him despite everything and hoped he would not think she had somehow done it on purpose. 'I will take it back to the library, sir,' she said loudly, willing him to leave Ron alone.

Snape glared at her. And then it happened. He opened the book. Not randomly in the middle, but at approximately two-thirds, as if he was looking for something in particular - suggesting that he knew Mortar's book like his own pockets

He frowned. His eyes narrowed. 'What is _this_?' he hissed, and raising his voice he read: '"Yet the lies that Melkor, the mighty and accursed Morgoth Bauglir, the Power of Terror and of Hate -" He stopped for a moment, looking utterly baffled, but then he recovered and went on: " - sowed in the hearts of Elves and Men are a seed that does not die and cannot be destroyed; and ever and anon it sprouts anew, and will bear dark fruit even unto the latest of days." Miss Granger, do you know what class is this?'

'A Potions class, professor Snape,' she replied stiffly, wishing she could tell him not to treat her like a six year old.

'Correct. Five points to Gryffindor for remembering the fact. And twenty points _from_ Gryffindor for disregarding it. I will, of course, confiscate the offending item.' Snape shut The Silmarillion with a loud bang that no book of any size could have produced unaided, and returned to his desk.

Hermione flinched, and not only because the looks of all her fellow Gryffindors (except Neville) struck her like so many blows. When Snape sat down she raised a tentative finger.

He eyed her coldly. 'Miss Granger. You will get these verbal excretions back when I judge the time ripe to return them to you.'

26. _Remus Lupin_

The last hour before lunch was the third-year Gryffindor class. Though Remus tried not to give in to house bias this was one of his favourite groups, something he tended to ascribe to the presence of Harry and of Hermione Granger.

On this particular Monday, though, Hermione was not in her usual top-form. She missed an open question - Parvati Patil raised her finger a full second earlier - and she looked unhappy and more tired than any thirteen-year old girl should, with the same bluish shadows beneath her eyes as he had after a his transformations. The problem could be hormonal, but Remus felt he should at least try to find out if it was of a more specific kind.

'Hermione,' he began at the end of class while the other students filed out, 'are you all right?'

To his surprise, she panicked, her nostrils widening visibly. Her eyes darted to her watch.

'You're not going to lose any house points if you're a bit late for lunch,' Remus said in an attempt to cheer her up, and not quite understanding why she flinched. 'But if you don't want to take the risk, we can talk on our way to the Great Hall.'

This morning, he had decided not to eat lunch in his rooms today, feeling that he had shown his face too little in public the last few days. The house-elf Dribbly, aware of Finrod's presence and sworn to silence, was instructed to bring up meals from the kitchen, and Finrod claimed he didn't mind being alone. He had found Adalbert Waffling's Magical Theory among Remus's books and declared himself determined to decipher it, though Remus doubted his present reading skills were entirely equal to Waffling's meandering style.

Hermione fidgeted, avoiding his gaze. 'I'm fine, Professor,' she said, her tone belying her words. Again, she glanced at her watch, and began to back out of the classroom.

Remus reached her in two steps. When he saw her troubled look, he almost put his arm around her but then thought better of it. He ought to keep his distance. She would no doubt think that a male teacher thrice her age had no business getting so close, even though she didn't know said teacher was a werewolf to boot.

'Hermione, what's wrong? You really don't look well,' he said concerned, hovering at her elbow. 'If you don't want to tell me, maybe you should go and see Madam Pomfrey.'

'No, it's nothing sir, really.' She kept averting her face. 'It's just... Professor Snape confiscated my favourite book this morning during Potions Class and took fifteen points, so I'm a bit down, but it'll pass. I'm awfully sorry, Professor, but I have to leave now!' Hermione turned and trotted off with her much too heavy schoolbag - but not toward the Great Hall, Remus saw. Was she going to skip lunch? He frowned. She was on the skinny side.

He tried not to feel too disappointed at her refusal to confide in him. It had to be a girl's problem; hopefully she'd take his advice to heart and consult Poppy. 

Meanwhile, her story about the book sounded credible enough, and knowing Snape the man was capable of keeping it for months. Remus resolved to talk to him; that much he could do, at least. Not right away, though. As long as the offence - perceived or real - remained fresh, few people would stand a chance against the world champion in grudge bearing. He'd wait a couple of days, maybe until the weekend. 

When he entered the Great Hall Hermione was in her usual place at the Gryffindor table, as if she hadn't run into the opposite direction mere minutes ago. She eyed him briefly before re-engaging in what looked like a debate with her friends - too briefly for Remus to see the expression on her face.

_Someone else is hiding a secret here,_ he thought. He refrained from confronting her. 

27. _Sirius Black_

Sirius chafed. The Kneazle hadn't delivered yet. True, the passwords wouldn't be lying around in the Gryffindor common room. So the animal wasn't at fault. Still, having to wait was infuriating. Padfoot paced from bush to bush. Well. At least he had no cause to think happy thoughts that would attract Dementors.

Having the Dementors here was an insane idea. Those fools in the Ministry hadn't used their wits - didn't possess any wits worth mentioning. But the castle was full of young boys and girls. Many of them had to have happy thoughts or fuzzy feelings. He knew he must have had them when he was their age, though he didn't remember them. With all those tempting snacks in the vicinity the Dementors would inevitably be lured onto the Hogwarts grounds sooner or later.

He sat down, sniffing the air. Cold but not chilly, so they weren't too close. He could go hunting rabbits in the Forest - though he'd prefer to eat rat. Drooling, Padfoot rose.

And tensed.Who was that?

The tall bloke crossing the lawn looked unfamiliar to him. (But then, who was he supposed to be familiar with after twelve years?) To the dog's monochrome vision, the man' robes were grey and his hair was pale. He walked with graceful steps, looking all about him. Every once in a while he halted, seeming to breathe deeply. Visibly enjoying himself. _Oh yes, don't worry, be happy, do bring in the soul-suckers._

Where was he going now? _Stupid git. Did no one tell you about the Whomping Willow?_

Obviously not. He'd get smacked quite thoroughly. Shit. 

Padfoot would be fast enough to keep the poor sod out of harm's way. And so, Padfoot burst out of the bushes and ran for it. He bounded across the lawn, allowing himself a single, warning bark. More noise would only draw undue attention.

The man cast a glance at him but his steps didn't even falter. _Bloody hell!_ Padfoot hurried on. The Willow, sensing the nearness of moving things, raised a branch. _No way, tree!_ With a mighty leap Padfoot smashed into the intended victim, knocking him over. The branch swept over his head, touching the tips of his ears. The man rolled aside with remarkable agility.

Padfoot wheeled and fled as well, just before the next branch came crashing down. Safely out of reach, he sat on his haunches to see if his action had been successful. Apparently it had. The man rose, extricating himself elegantly from the twisted folds of his robes. He turned his gaze toward Padfoot, and across the four, five yards of lawn that separated them his flaming eyes met the ice-blue gaze of the dog. Padfoot huffed in surprise.

Then the man - _fucking idiot!_ - turned back towards the tree.

This time, Padfoot wasn't going to intervene. Some people were beyond help. He settled down to watch the carnage.

The next moment, his ears caught an unexpected sound. It was the strange man, who had started to croon an eerie tune. Padfoot kept watching. Part of him knew he had better seek cover to avoid being seen; anyone could be looking out of the windows. But he was unable to leave. Though no wand was being waved and no words were being spoken, he found himself spellbound. 

Carefully the man approached the Whomping Willow, the crooning turning into a wordless song. His arms and hands were spread as to signal his peaceful intentions. All the time he kept singing, an enchanting melody. And all the time Padfoot watched and listened raptly, tongue lolling from his mouth.

The Willow loved the song, so much was plain: the tree didn't lift a branch against the singer. It allowed him to draw close until he reached the bole. There, the singer raised his hand and laid the palm carefully against the bark, a gesture like... _a caress_? Vainly, Padfoot tried to remember how a caress felt, or a pat. He thought he saw a shiver go through the tree, through bole and branches and leafless twigs. Briefly, he shook himself.

The singer gazed up, still chanting softly. One of the Willow's slender twigs bent down to touch his crown.

Padfoot's heart felt as if it was about to burst. It had never occurred to him that the fucking tree might have a soul. He wanted to howl - in sorrow or joy, he didn't know which. Before the howl could escape his throat he raced back towards the bushes.

28. _Finrod Felagund_

He wondered what had made this particular willow so angry; most others of its kind were prone to weep, not to whomp. Maybe Remus knew. Again, Finrod patted the tree. Its branches swayed despite the absence of wind, and he knew that if hadn't been winter its leaves would have rustled. He replied that if it depended on him, he would be back soon.

This reminded him that he was not supposed to be here in the first place, having assured Remus that he would stay inside to apply himself to the art of reading English. He had indeed done so until Dribbly appeared out of thin air bearing a tray of food and Finrod had vainly tried to engage in meaningful conversation with the house elf:

_'I hope I'm not being obtrusive, but why are you always dressed in a rag, Dribbly?'_

'Is a tea towel, Mr. Felagund, sir. Clean and newly mended.' Proudly, the elf showed him the pink patch on the yellow and red squared piece of worn cloth. 

'But wouldn't you rather wear proper clothes? I'm sure something could be arranged -'

The little elf looked crestfallen. 'Is sir not being happy with Dribbly, that he is proposing to offer him clothes? Is you not liking the food?'

'The food is fine,' Finrod replied truthfully, this being the question he understood.

Beaming, the house elf said: 'Then you will not be shaming Dribbly by offering him clothing, Mr. Felagund, sir.' And without waiting for a reaction he vanished.

Giving a house elf clothes was apparently offensive. To judge by what Dribbly had said it was a sign that you did not appreciate their services. In that case, he had better not broach the subject, next time the house elf appeared, Finrod had mused.

The exchange had robbed him of any desire to read about magical theory. Giving in to his urges he had left the castle by a window and chanced the twelve feet drop to the ground. He regretted being out of bounds, but the temptation to go outside for a walk under the sky had simply been too strong. 

Fortunately, he had not encountered anyone so far, except the black dog with the blue eyes. _The grim,_ he thought. _The harbinger of death_, according to Sybill Trelawney, who had foretold his demise. Perhaps she was right. What if, returning to where he came from, he would do so only to die? He had been near death when he was spirited away. He wondered if this was the reason why he had not mentioned either of her predictions to Remus, or if this had something to do with the 'fleeing wolf' in the first, more serious sounding one.

But whatever was the case, this was an intriguing dog. Turning away from the willow Finrod saw it run back towards the edge of the forest. Following it was almost not a conscious choice; he had also left in the castle to find a suitable piece of wood to carve, and what better place to look for it than in the woods?

Entering the forest was like stepping from day into dusk. It was thick with various kinds of trees: Finrod's gaze caught beeches, oaks, yew trees and pines in a single glance. The undergrowth was dense and in places thorny, though not impenetrable; without some innate sense of direction one could easily get lost here. The air beneath the canopy of leaves was stuffy rather than fresh, and his skin tingled as if someone was scrawling a message on it: you are being watched. He sensed no outright hostility, yet he knew he was not precisely welcome. He was an intruder, and these woods were determined to harm him if he treated it with anything less than the utmost respect.

Finrod smiled; this atmosphere of vigilance resembled that in the forests of Ossiriand, where the Laiquendi dwelled. With light steps, careful not to break even the tiniest twig, he set off toward the sound of a brook gurgling in the distance. It would be good to sit down for a while and listen to the voice of the water. The little stream was close by; soon, he caught a glimpse of it between the trees. He increased his pace, skirting a thorn bush by less than an inch.

And halted. On a boulder beside the brook was the black dog, lying down with its head resting on its paws. When it spotted Finrod, the animal looked up. Somehow it reminded him of the Hound his cousin Celegorm had brought from Valinor, though it was not nearly as huge as Huan. Finrod approached it cautiously, more for the dog's sake than for his own. Since had been mauled by a werewolf - an evil werewolf - little could daunt him, either this side of death or beyond.

Sitting up the dog fixated him. The intelligence in its gaze also reminded Finrod of Huan; perhaps a greeting was in order. 'Well met, Humor,' he said, inclining his head courteously. 'I am Finrod, also known as Felagund.'

At that, the black dog bared its teeth in what seemed to be a grin rather than a threat. But it wasn't accompanied by any tail wagging.

Drawing closer until he came within five feet of the boulder, Finrod searched the animal's eyes that seemed more than animal eyes. His curiosity soon overcame his reluctance, and he decided to venture behind them, gazing right into their owner's mind...

... to discover that this dog was even more fascinating than he had thought.

'Can you talk?' he asked. 

Humor stood, gazing down at him, and for a moment Finrod thought that he was about to speak. But then the dog froze, panting, ears twitching, turning into all directions. Suddenly he flattened them and leapt straight across the brook to melted into the trees on the other side like a shadow.

If this was meant to be a reply to his question it seemed overdone, but Finrod doubted that it was. Trust an animal's instincts. So he went still, listening, looking, smelling, sensing. And finding. A new element had crept into the atmosphere inside the forest, something uncanny and chilly that had nothing to do with the armed vigilance he had registered before. The murmuring of the brook had darkened to an unsettling mutter. 

Perhaps he had better leave. Pulling his robes more closely around him, Finrod quickly retraced his steps toward the lawn and the castle on the rocks. At the edge of the trees, he stopped briefly when he saw precisely the piece of wood he had come to seek. He picked it up, hoping the forest would not begrudge him such an insignificant a piece of itself.

Straightening, he discovered that he had landed himself into trouble by going out. A small group of students was descending the lawn towards the lake.

(TBC)


	9. Chapter 9

_29. Hermione Granger_

Today's classes were finally done and Hermione was on her way to the Library to borrow some books she needed for her latest assignments. Her stomach, oblivious to the existence and use of time-turners, told her it wanted dinner now. Sternly she told it to stop growling, but it refused to comply. With a sigh Hermione put down her schoolbag to dig up a biscuit.

When she straightened, the sight of Professor Snape ascending one of the stairs met her gaze. He was approaching the landing when it began to move away. But instead of allowing it to transport him elsewhere, Snape hitched up his robes and leaped, displaying a strength and agility she hadn't known he possessed. After a graceful touchdown the Potions Master strode on without missing a beat. It was only then Hermione realised he wasn't wearing his usual black robes.

Maybe he was in a good mood, she thought, convinced that not even Severus Snape could remain grim and gloomy all the time. Cramming the whole biscuit into her mouth and hauling up her bag she hurried after him, ready to apologise profusely for reading novels during Potions class if only it would help her get the Silmarillion back.

Keeping up his pace was hard, but just as she was about to give up Snape reached his destination. Hermione halted, swallowing her mouthful of biscuit. Weren't those Professor Lupin's quarters? Then why did he enter them without knocking?

Something didn't seem right. Maybe it would be better not to have seen this. On the other hand, she had a good pretext to accost him, and what if she could prevent him from doing something... well, undesirable, just by going in? 

Deciding it was a clever plan, she followed him in.

Snape stood facing the door when Hermione opened it, holding a harp she recognised as the one Quirrell had used to lull Fluffy asleep. His startled look was swiftly replaced by the usual glare. 'What are you doing here?' he snapped; apparently the colour of his robes wasn't indicative of his mood.

Had he always been so dauntingly tall? Had his eyes always burned so intensely? She cleared her throat. 'I was hoping to find Professor Lupin, sir. I need to consult him about - something. These are his rooms, aren't they?'

Snape folded his arms across his chest. 'Can I - just tell me. I'll convey your message.'

Had he been about to _ask_ if he could pass it on? Hermione stared at him. His mouth was pursed rather oddly, almost as if he was doing his best not to laugh. One of his long fingers touched a harpstring, but surely he didn't play? The idea that Snape and music could go together defied credulity.

'Er... it's... er, personal, Professor,' Hermione stammered. He scowled but said nothing. Could she leave now without feeling a coward? If something untoward were to happen, she would be able to tell who it was that had visited Professor Lupin's rooms while the occupant wasn't there. Unless, of course, Snape was going Obliviate her on her way out.

Still scowling, the Potions Master pointed at the couch. 'Sit down then, and wait for him.'

His behaviour was definitely odd, and for some reason his speech sounded odd as well. Hermione swallowed. 'Thank you, but er, I have a lot to do before dinner. My errand can wait.' She gathered all her courage. 'Professor, about the book you confiscated...'

The black eyes in the sallow face narrowed; but why did she have the impression he had lost her? 'Not today,' Snape muttered at last.

Disappointed and slightly baffled Hermione walked out with measured steps, trying not to make her retreat resemble a flight. She still remembered him standing there in his blue robes, so he had not Obliviated her. Or else he had partly erased her memory of what had happened in that room; the problem, at least from the Oblivated person's viewpoint, was that you couldn't tell what you didn't remember.

The surprise came when she entered the library several minutes later. Madam Pince was sitting in her usual place. In front of her desk was Professor Snape - dressed in black. And the book he was showing the librarian looked very familiar.

30. _Severus Snape_

Pince bent her shriveled face toward the book. 'Tolkien? A dead Muggle author,' she declared in that typical library hush. 'Quite popular here at Hogwarts in the sixties, after some Muggle born students introduced him. I never read anything he wrote, but we have his _Lord of the Rings_ here, a battered copy forgotten by a student who left school. But I don't remember having come across this book before.' She cast one more glance at the title page. 'Are you certain it's the cover that was charmed, not the contents?'

'I am,' Snape replied irritably. 'Charming the cover of a Potions treatise to look like a Muggle text _in a Potions class_ makes no sense. And while most students generally do fail to make sense, this one is an exception.' Galling though the admission was. 'I happen to know, by the way, that the _Lord of the Rings_ was still popular during the seventies among hare-brained and overly romantic Gryffindors.' He was positive he'd seen Black with a copy once. 'I never read it, but now I need to know what kind of books this Tolkien wrote.'

Dark matter, if Granger's book was anything to go by. He had leafed through it before and during lunch, to discover that it contained an unknown mythology with Platonic (or Plotinic) influences, followed by a chronicle dealing with various kinds of evil, such as treason, maiming and killing, more treason, robbery and rebellion, war and destruction, still more treason, abandoned children, werewolves, dragons and other unsavoury monsters. It even contained an incest story.

Incriminating material, even dangerously fascinating for certain people - the likes of Black would positively relish it! - but not a book one would expect Granger to enjoy. Unless she was reading it for educational purposes; however grudgingly, Snape was forced to admit the author, Muggle or not had a firm grasp of human folly and weakness and a refreshingly pessimistic worldview. But other elements were merely ridiculous, such as the suggestion that most of the perpetrators were Elves. Elves!

The reason why he wanted to know more, though, was that parts of it seemed familiar, reminding him of the enchanter Felagund's illusions, yesterday in Lupin's rooms, that tale full of sound and fury. He was sure it had mentioned this Morgoth, a lord as dark as any, while the jewel theft and the ensuing slaughter of innocents also rang a bell. Snape, who didn't believe in coincidence, was determined to solve this riddle. The preface - written by a son who seemed to have tampered with his father's manuscripts - was not very helpful, but he supposed the author's chef d'oeuvre would yield more information. 'Where do you have this copy of _The Lord of the Rings_?'

Pince rose, grabbing her feather book duster. 'I'll get it for you.'

Once more, Snape opened _The Silmarillion_ in an attempt to make sense of the weird lettering on the title page. He wondered if it was not, in fact, a highly dangerous curse waiting to be triggered by some unsuspecting fool. Could it be that the author was a dark wizard, masking as a Muggle? Slowly, he closed the book, telling himself his interest was purely academic and cautionary.

'Why am I not surprised!'

The librarian's angry voice upset the precarious balance of his thoughts, and Snape nearly jumped out of his skin. 'What?'

'The book's gone. Nicked by a student, no doubt, and the Founders know who, and when. I should have jinxed it.' She waved the feather duster threateningly into his direction, as if he had anything to do with the book's disappearance.

'Oh? I didn't get the impression you'd consider it such a big loss,' he snapped, feeling attacked for no reason.

'It's the principle.' Madam Pince's nose acquired several more wrinkles. 'Well, as I can't help you, you may want to try one of the students.'

He nodded and turned away. Try one of the students, indeed! The student most likely to possess another Tolkien text was sitting at one of the library tables right now, hunched over a book and pretending not to notice him. Snape eyed her malevolently. It would be no use to ask Granger for _The Lord of the Rings_ as long as he held her other book hostage: she'd never own up to having a copy. Well. He could probably figure it all out on his own, even though he really wasn't looking foward to it.

When he strode past her she looked up, raising a finger as if they were in class. 'Professor Snape?'

He halted, his long fingers clutching _The Silmarillion_ more tightly. 'If it's about your book...' he began threateningly.

Granger shook her bushy head, looking at his collar rather than at his face. 'I just wondered why you changed robes again, sir,' she murmured.

Idiot question. Was Potter's impertinence starting to rub off? 'Miss Granger, if you are suffering from hallucinations, I may have to brew you one of my more unpleasant remedies. So I strongly advise you to consult Madam Pomfrey before it comes to that,' he told her.

She stared at him, frowning slightly. Thinking hard.

Snape did not like what he saw. With one last glare at her he swept out.

31. _Remus Lupin_

'The Headmaster is delving into the problem,' Remus announced from the doorway, 'but so far -' He stopped abruptly, his hand still on the knob. The person sitting on his couch beside the harp was not the one he had expected to see.

'Severus!' Remus said neutrally. 'Can I help you?'

Instead of replying, the Potions Master eyed Remus curiously, an expression that seemed an alien presence on his face until it shifted into a more familiar glare.

'I really hope you haven't come for the harp,' Remus said. 'I'm afraid our guest would miss it very much if you took it.'

'What if I did?' Snape said, rising to his feet with a fluid motion and picking up the instrument. 'It isn't as if he can claim it for himself. Or you, for that matter, Lupin. I think I'll put it back where it belongs, now that your packmate has used it to spin his yarn.'

'Pity,' Remus replied, shrugging. 'But I can't stop you.' He gestured toward the door. 'Now if you don't mind, Severus, I have some vampire essays to grade...'

'Are you throwing me out, Lupin?' Snape said haughtily, drawing himself up. 

Remus stepped closer. This was fun. 'You're good,' he said. 'The voice is brilliant. The face could use an extra pinch of resentment and the hair a little more grease, but otherwise...'

'What gave me away?'

'The robes, mostly. Snape never wears anything but black.

Finrod pulled a face. 'I was afraid so, but I could only cast an illusion about myself. It's a miracle I got the hair approximately right.' An arpeggio on the harp, a soft chant in that strange language this room had never heard until yesterday, and the shape in front of Remus shifted from Snape to Finrod.

'Splendid!' Remus said admiringly, trying not to grin like an idiot. No wizard, indeed! This had to be a form of Metamorphmagic, but he had never heard of a Metamorph who worked with spells, instead of being born with the potential. He walked over to the couch and sat down, leaning back and stretching his legs. 'Can you use that charm to change the appearance of other people?'

Finrod sat down, too, putting aside the harp. 'I have used it. Surely you remember the part of my tale where I changed my companions and myself into servants of the Enemy?'

'I do.' Remus recalled the ugly, misshapen creatures quite vividly. A jarring, brutal contrast with the beauty of Finrod and his people. And to no avail, in the end. 

'What would you have done if I had walked out just now and continued to impersonate Severus Snape?' he heard Finrod ask suddenly.

Without looking at him Remus said: 'Why do I have the impression that you did walk out earlier today, and that changing into Severus was an emergency measure to avoid being seen?' Not that he blamed Finrod. In fact, he was reasonable certain he would have wanted to do the same if he had been cooped up in these relatively small quarters for days. But he realised he had spoken in a mildly disapproving teacher's voice.

'When I opened the window and smelled the wind I could stay between walls no more... Once, I was a rebel.' Something in the other's tone made Remus turn his head, and doing so he saw that Finrod was mostly speaking to himself now. 'I deemed myself confined. With my fellow rebels I broke out of what we considered our prison, calling it escape, though with every step my roving feet brought me to another prison, worse than the first. In that deep dungeon, wondering if this was fate, I lay dying - until I was transported to this place that seems to lie outside the music of fate. Were you in my place, would you not wonder if this were freedom?' His voice had grown strong, more imperious than Remus had known it could become. 'I was held by the same hands that shaped seas and moved mountains, and I turned away from them - what are your Headmaster's restrictions to me?'

A magnificent show of teeth - teeth that had torn a werewolf's throat. Meeting Finrod's piercing gaze Remus suddenly realised what he had known all along but had not allowed to sink in: that those eyes were older than Dumbledore's. Many lifetimes older. It occurred to him that if Finrod would change, he would be the most dangerous werewolf the Wizarding World had ever known. Remus blinked, though he managed not to look away.

Though he wasn't sure if he was expected to reply he took a deep breath and asked: 'So you're pulling rank on our Headmaster, your Majesty? Do you mean to say that as an immortal, one-time king you're above our petty rules and restrictions?' Gritty as his words sounded to his own ears, he didn't think Finrod would take offence at a few honest questions.

A lopsided grin appeared on Finrod's face, and gone was the King. 'Yes and no,' he replied. 'It's just that I happen to be somewhat restless by nature. My older cousins - and I have more than a handful of them - would tell you I've always been a silly boy who couldn't sit still and hold his tongue if his life depended on it.'

'But your Headmaster.' he continued after a pause, 'could have informed me why he considers it necessary to keep my presence here a secret, instead of expecting me to stay put like an obedient student. I should think that I'm old enough. But I also know he is protecting you, my friend, and watching over his young charges. And this is the reason why, once I ran the risk of being seen by a group of students, I chose not to show myself as I am but to impersonate someone I met here. I took care to pick the most forbidding of you, hoping to avoid being approached.'

'And did you succeed?' Remus asked. Like the previous day, the word 'friend' warmed him like a chocolate bar consumed after an encounter with a Dementor, and he was more than ready now to applaud Finrod's actions as befitting a true Gryffindor.

'Almost. One girl followed me here. She said she wanted to see you, but when I told her to wait for you she left. As far as I can tell she didn't suspect anything.'

A short interrogation led Remus to the conclusion that Finrod had met Hermione Granger, though he proved his inability to estimate the correct age of youthful mortals by thinking she was about sixteen. Remus also doubted Hermione hadn't noticed anything, as the girl was more perceptive than approximately ninety-nine percent of the Hogwarts population.

But for the moment, he decided to let sleeping dogs lie. 'You didn't speak with anyone else while you were, er, being Severus?'

'No.' But if Remus was not mistaken, Finrod had hesitated ever so slightly before replying.

_32. Finrod Felagund_

His reply was true enough: It was not the Hogwarts Potions Master who had encountered the black dog, and as the animal had never replied there had been no conversation. Finrod did intend to tell Remus about Humor, but he wanted to find out more about him, like he also needed more time to ponder the Divination teacher's mysterious prophecy - or whatever it was - before mentioning it to anyone else.

Words spoken in foresight were rarely trustworthy guides of deeds. They should not be repeated without good cause, while a lone Elda in a world full of mortals would do well to keep his own counsel. Though admittedly it was pleasant to dwell among humans who showed no inclination to worship him when he told a tale in his own manner, or gaped when he used his own... well, magic.

'No, Severus Snape did not speak with anyone,' he repeated. 'But Finrod took something along and finds himself in need of a knife now.' He rose to show Remus the piece of yew wood he had picked up at the edge of the forest.

'You've been in the Forest?' Remus asked. 'And nothing attacked you, or told you to sod off?'

'Nothing,' replied Finrod. I did have the impression the Forest was watching me suspiciously, but I'm confident we will reach an agreement, the forest and I. After all, the willow was also willing to listen to me.'

'The... you mean the Whomping Willow?'

'The fighting tree, yes.'

'Are you telling me it stopped trying to beat you into pulp?'

'Yes, once I'd calmed it with a song. Do you know why it is so upset?' 

'Well...' Remus said, still looking amazed. 'I suppose I can tell you what's behind the whomping.' And he proceeded to explain why the Willow had been planted there.

Finrod did not know what shocked him more: the story of Remus's violent nights in the Shrieking Shack, or the casual way in which his werewolf friend glossed over his monthly self-mutilation. 'Of course, now that the Wolfsbane Potion helps me to keep my human mind when I transform, I don't go there anymore,' the wizard finished cheerfully.

Finrod felt grateful for the existence of the potion, and not in the first place because there was a tiny chance he would need it for himself. 'Has no one informed the willow it's whomping in vain now?' he asked after a silence. 'Perhaps I should pay it another visit?'

Remus eyed him with wry amusement. 'You can't sit still, can you? The problem is... Let me put it like this: If I provide you with a whittling knife, will you stop getting yourself into situations where you'll have to turn into Snape to avoid being seen?'

Finrod cocked his head. The wording seemed to allow for creative solutions to what was, in fact, no better than house-arrest. He suspected Remus was aware of the loopholes. 'Promise,' he said.

The wizard eyed him shrewdly. 'You'll get your knife. What are you going to carve, by the way?'

Turning the wood around in his hands Finrod replied: 'Whatever this wants to be.' He did not add that he knew.

The next day, he kept his promise. He spent it whittling away at his piece of yew, improving his reading skills and practising his letters on sheets of sheepskin parchment. Remus, returning to his chambers late in the afternoon, reported some sightings of Snape-in-a-blue-robe, adding that most students assumed it was a practical joke and were ready to cheer if the perpetrator should reveal himself ('which I think he should not.').

In the evening, they had a debate about what Finrod considered a circular definition of magic in Waffling's book on magical theory, because it contained words like faculties and powers without explaining what these were in other than magical and wizarding terms. Remus then challenged Finrod to define musicality without using terms referring to music, or artistry without using the word art, after which Finrod asked him if he thought magic was an art and they somehow ended up talking about Dark Arts and sorcery.

That was the point where the gloomy note crept into their pleasant debate and they decided to call it a day. Remus did not say what it was that bothered him, while Finrod was loath to speak about his failure to withstand Sauron's dark sorcery and save Beren. Nor did walking the path of dreams bring succour that night, for he found himself in Sauron's pit again, wrestling with the werewolf. This time, though, the pit was not dark but illuminated by the wan light of a full moon - and the werewolf was black, like a grim hound of death.

(TBC)


	10. Chapter 10

Hurray! Today I was finally able to upload! So here's:

CHAPTER 10

32. _Finrod Felagund_ (ctd.)

The next morning, Finrod's mood was overcast like the sky. What if he was stuck here until the End of Arda and a day? But the instant he caught himself musing that Sauron's dungeon was, in a way, preferable to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Finrod pulled himself together and dedicated himself to his woodcarving. The basic shape was there but getting the hairs right would require quite a bit of additional work.

It was late in the afternoon, when Remus was still away, that a diversion presented itself in the form of the Hogwarts Potions Master.

'Did you have the evil courage to impersonate me, the other day?' Snape hissed without preamble, his eyes spitting fire. Even when he stood stock still in the middle of the room his robes seemed to flutter a little, as if his fury spurred them into movement. He had his wand out.

Finrod found himself wondering if the wizard intended to transform him, and if he would be able to prevent such a thing from happening. Facing his accuser unflinchingly he replied. 'Indeed I am, sir - and I ask your forgiveness. If this is unsatisfactory, what do you wish me to do? Do I grovel, pleading for mercy?'

'How did you do it?' Snape demanded, the bright red spots on his cheeks indicating that he was even more furious now, as if he took the apology for an insult.

_By applying the teachings of my youth? By being who and what I am?_ Somehow, Finrod doubted these answers would satisfy the irate wizard. 'How do you do magic?' he countered.

The other ignored his question, too. 'It was Lupin, wasn't it?' he spat, panting with rage. 'Lupin provided you with polyjuice... to allow you to leave the castle... and contact the murderer Black without drawing undue attention. But being his usual sloppy self... he forgot the black robes.'

Wizards used potions to create such effects? Interesting. 'He did nothing of the kind, sir. On the contrary, he disapproved of what I did yesterday.' Verbally, that was.

The wand was pointing straight at Finrod now, and the Potions Master's face twisted in disgust, as if he smelled something foul. 'Lupin, disapproving of something a friend did? That would be a first!'

_He detests Remus,_ Finrod realised, _and not merely, or even mostly, because he is a werewolf._ 'And I swear to you that neither he nor I are in league with Black,' he continued, ignoring Snape's words. But even as he spoke, it was plain that the wizard did not believe him.

The next moment, Finrod noticed to his surprise that Snape sought to enter his mind, uncoiling a tendril of thought, and extending it toward him. But it was not nearly strong enough; it lacked the acuity with which the Deceiver had pierced his mind during their duel on the Isle of Werewolves, baring his guilt and bleeding his resistance dry. Wizard or not, Finrod could keep this embittered man from reading him.

'I acted on a whim and entirely of my own accord ,' he said, trying to salvage at least something from the wreck. 'If you wish to mete out some form of punishment, please leave Remus out of it.'

'I, punish you?' The wizard stepped closer, beaming with sudden malevolence, his voice gone soft. If you were true to your own nature, you'd have to punish yourself for your misbehaviour, wouldn't you?'

Finrod felt he had lost him. 'I'm sorry - if you told me what you are referring to, I might be able to answer your question, sir.'

'You're an elf, aren't you?' the other insinuated, as if uncovering a shameful secret that Finrod had done his utmost to hide. 'You are bound to the werewolf Lupin, whose creature you became the moment he sank his filthy teeth into you. So you are accountable to him, like the Hogwarts house elves are accountable to the Headmaster and the heads of the four Houses.'

House-elves? Finrod was baffled, insulted and intrigued at the same time. _So I am a kind of house-elf?_

'Remus did not bite me,' he muttered, but his thoughts were running wild already, and his words carried less conviction than they should.

'And elves,' Snape finished silkily, as if Finrod hadn't spoken, 'are obliged to punish themselves if they disobey their masters and act contrary to their wishes and interests. They must iron their own hands. Bang their heads against the wall. Cut their -'

Ignoring this outlandish and disturbing suggestion for the moment Finrod said, genuinely curious: 'Could you explain to me why you believe I am a house-elf?'

'It's in this book, isn't it? The talkin' book. You must have read it, or you wouldn't have come up with that fairy tale to explain your mysterious appearance in our dungeons. Or was it Lupin's idea to use this drivel?' Again that look of disgust. 'He would know such books; one of his parents is Muggle-born, after all. A lame prank, but he was never very ingenious.'

Suddenly, Finrod had enough of it - enough of the riddles and the insinuations, enough of the ill-will behind them. 'What is your quarrel with Remus?' he asked. 'He can't help being a werewolf - or do you think he asked to be bitten? It could have happened to anyone. It could have happened to you.'

The fanatical glitter reappeared in the wizard's eyes. 'Thanks to Lupin and his cronies,' Snape said in a voice ragged with fury, 'thanks to them, it almost did happen to me. Ask Lupin what they did two decades ago, while we all attended this school. Ask him who it was that tried to send straight at a werewolf's teeth, and where this crazy murderer is now. Ask him, and pray that he doesn't lie to you as he does to everyone else, including the Headmaster.'

The man exuded bad feelings like body odours; but Finrod began to have an inkling why he was so unhappy and so full of spite. Their eyes met - and Finrod decided to face it.

Snape stabbed at him with his wand. 'Legilimens!' he cried.

And Finrod remembered the werewolf.

_Sauron's beast stalked into the Pit, hackles raised. It went straight for Beren. Desperately, Finrod strained against his bonds. Take me! My life for his! Oh Valar help me in this hour of need! Save the son of Barahir, for he is innocent. He has ever been Morgoth's foe. Tulkas, lend me strength!_

_The werewolf stopped for a moment, unholy, glowing eyes turning away from the mortal. Finrod struggled. Take the guilty one, wolf!_

The moment he felt his bonds burst, Finrod realised what was going on: the wizard was invading his memories. He fought back fiercely against this violation; this was his, and his alone to grant; no one should rip it from him...

_... the werewolf, fangs dripping, came towards him and crouched..._

NO!

New images stabbed at him like knives, and these were different. Two dark-haired adolescents, one ugly, one handsome, yet oddly similar, were looking daggers at one another. The handsome boy spoke and pointed, smiling viciously. His ugly mirror image wheeled and stalked away. A familiar looking willow with flailing limbs was stilled with a stick. The ugly boy crept through a tunnel, the tip of his wand a tiny light in the gloom. Ahead, outlined by yellow light, was a hairy head with an elongated snout. Huge paws carried it toward the boy, who froze in horror, wetting himself. Slavering jaws, full of razor teeth, gaped wide; red nostrils flared. Finrod could not have said if he heard the snarls, or supplied them from memory.

Monster. Werewolf. Bent on slaughter. Finrod braced himself. He could take this; his flesh had known such teeth.

Something? Someone? dragged him away. The images vanished. Finrod found himself staring at Severus Snape, whose forehead glistened with sweat.

'That beast,' Snape said in a voice dripping with hatred and choking with remembered terror, 'was Lupin. And the piece of filth who tried to send me to my death was Black, his friend, the escaped criminal who is lurking outside the castle at this very instant, with murderous intent.' He stabbed a finger at Finrod. 'Unless he's inside, waiting for the right moment to strike? Maybe you know? Maybe you could tell us more about Black's comings and goings, Mr - Felagund?'

Strictly spoken Finrod did not know. But he had his suspicions; claiming otherwise would be a lie. And so, he remained silent.

34. _Minerva Mcgonagall_

When the Deputy Headmistress stepped from the fireplace into the Headmaster's office, Albus Dumbledore was just wrapping up a conversation with one of his predecessors. 'Well, Phineas,' he was saying, 'if you're really convinced this house elf could retrieve this book from the family library without making it kill him, I suppose you could ask him to search for it.'

He looked sceptical. Minerva McGonagall wondered what was going on. Unless she was very much mistaken, the Headmaster had just expressed an interest in some Dark Arts book from the library of the ancient and most notorious House of Black.

'The likes of Kreacher do not perish so easily, Albus,' she heard the portrait reply. And I know how to make them co-operative.' Sniggering, the late, unlamented Phineas Nigellus departed, leaving an empty frame behind.

'Take a seat, Minerva,' Albus was saying.

As she had been trying to read the contents page of the text on his desk upside down (_Essence, Being and Presence; The Embodiment and Disembodiment of Fantastic Imaginings; Solidified Wishes and Desires and the Evanescence Thereof; Summoning Fancies-_), she sat down with her curiosity unsatisfied.

'Sherbet le-' Albus began while she sat down, but then he shook his head. 'What am I thinking!' He conjured up a tin of shortbread in front of her, and the eyes above the crooked nose twinkled merrily.

Minerva supposed she ought to be grateful the Headmaster hadn't saved any Haggis-flavoured Beans especially for her. Suppressing a shiver she said: 'Thank you, Albus,' without touching the tin. Dinner was in half an hour; she had no intention to spoil her appetite.

'What can I do for you, Minerva?' Albus asked. She saw his fingers slide towards the book, and for a moment she had the impression he was going to close it inconspicuously, as if he wanted to hide it from her without appearing secretive. But all he did was flatten the dog-ear in the lower right hand corner. Minerva relaxed. Though she knew the Headmaster of Hogwarts had secrets no one was privy to, she did not need a demonstration.

'Two things,' she said. 'One, I could use your advice in a matter concerning one of my Gryffindor third years. Two, I have a question I hope you're able to answer.'

Albus gestured for her to go ahead, and she continued: 'The student I'm referring to is Hermione Granger. I'm beginning to wonder if she uses her Time-turner as wisely as I assumed she would. When she entered my classroom today, I was unpleasantly surprised to see how tired and haunted she looked.'

'Did you discuss this with her?' the Headmaster inquired.

'I tried. But apparently Remus did the same earlier this week' - Albus smiled - 'and my impression was that all those solicitous, meddlesome teachers were getting on her nerves. Hermione assured me she was fine in a voice that suggested the exact opposite. But when she told me that Poppy's examination had yielded nothing out of the ordinary for a girl of her age, I couldn't very well give her the lie. Using Veritaserum would be a bit overdone, don't you think so.' Minerva straightened in her chair. 'I'm inclined to give her the benefit of the doubt for the... time being, but all the same I'd like to have your opinion, Albus.'

The Headmaster nodded. 'You know, Hermione Granger reminds me of another Gryffindor girl who visited this school once upon a time,' he mused.

Minerva pursed her lips, knowing what girl he was referring to.

'She also used to resent the interference of meddlesome teachers,' he went on, making her wonder how he knew this, as he hadn't meddled with her. 'But to return to miss Granger: I agree with you, Minerva. Do give it some time. Nevertheless' - he looked serious now - 'I think you should make sure it has nothing to do with the Time-turner itself.'

The Time-turner the Ministry of Magic had sent after approving Minerva's request, was supposed to have been thoroughly tested. Any jinxes or curses left behind by previous users ought to have been removed. But given the sloppiness and incompetence of some of the Ministry's employees, it was possible they had missed a thing or two.

The delivery owl had carried a note stating that the item was 'ancient but operable, and perfectly suitable for your purpose' (meaning 'severely antiquated, but good enough to be used by a mere student'). Minerva remembered wondering how old it was, for unlike Muggle artefacts, magical objects could last thousands of years without being any worse for wear, if treated with respect and discernment. Now, she found herself wondering about the history of this particular Time-turner.

'Indeed,' she said briskly. 'I'll owl the Ministry to ask if they keep records of the previous users. And I believe a double check would be in order. I'm sure she can miss the turner for a few days.' _After all,_ Hermione _thought Harry Potter could miss his brand-new Firebolt for a while,_ Minerva added silently and without much remorse.

'And your question?' Albus said, eyeing her invitingly across the bridge of his large, crooked nose.

'Do we have a guest resembling Gilderoy Lockhart?'

When Albus raised his eyebrows Minerva explained: 'A few days ago, during one of my classes, I went to my office to retrieve a book. Looking out of the window I saw a blond man in blue robes enter the Forbidden Forest. At first I thought it was our previous Defence against the Dark Arts teacher, escaped from St. Mungo's. But this man was taller, and unlike Lockhart he moved with a natural grace.' She paused before adding primly: 'Then there are these rumours about someone impersonating our Potions teacher but wearing blue instead of black robes. And please do not tell me this is a student prank.' She eyed the Headmaster evenly.

'I won't,' he replied smoothly and promptly. 'The Deputy Headmistress has a right to know what is going on in this school. I ought to have informed you earlier, and I will not come up with the excuses I judged valid at the time.'

Minerva allowed herself a hint of a smile. Once again, Albus had managed to take the insult out of the injury. When he finished his account, she indicated the textbook on his desk. 'And if I interpret the presence of this volume correctly, you believe this Mr. Felagund is a figment of the imagination? Someone's wish-fulfilment, come alive?'

Albus sighed. 'For a figment of the imagination, our guest has quite a will of his own. But I have to take every possibility into account - and this seems to be one of them.'

35. _Severus Snape  
_  
Back in the relative safety of his private dungeons, Snape set himself to the task of doubting the correctness of his perceptions and arguments as if they belonged to someone else. It was one of his ways to cope with the constant threat of being found wrong or wanting, which would lead to unbearable loss of face - just as he had ways to cope with the terrors of being despised, hated and vulnerable, a ceaseless, tiring fight that had to be fought all the same.

Two things had prompted this particular round of self-scrutiny. There was his recent discovery that Felagund had not known about Black's murder attempt, almost twenty years ago. His shock had been genuine. Ergo, Black and Lupin hadn't told him. Black probably didn't deem his long-standing enemy worth the breath it would take to mention his crime, while the werewolf was a compulsive liar-by-omission and probably afraid Felagund would condemn them.

However, this meant that Felagund would hardly be plotting young Potter's demise together with those two. And he definitely wasn't their trusted friend.

The second element was Granger's book. After his brief survey he'd already suspected it might be the source of Felagund's story. Now that he'd actually read most of it he knew that it was. Lupin probably owned the book; why he'd lent it to Granger was any werewolf's guess. As a Defence against the Dark Arts textbook it left rather much to be desired. It wasn't as if one could expect those Powers of the West to show up as dei ex machina if one were unlucky enough to run into a dark wizard bent on murder and destruction.

This still left the important question unanswered, though: why refer to this book at all? According to the text the character called Felagund was mauled by a werewolf. He had killed the monster in return but died shortly afterwards from his injuries. The stranger _had_ been badly wounded when he appeared in the dungeons. But why tell such a tale and admit that a werewolf had caused those wounds if he were a dark wizard in league with Black and Lupin? What purpose could such an admission conceivably serve, except to single the fellow out as a potential threat? It just didn't make sense. Was he feigning to be honest? But in that case, he would have denied any knowledge concerning Black's movements - which he had not!

Somehow, it did not add up, and the Potions Master detested calculations that refused to stay in line just as badly as he detested students who did so.

To make it even more complicated Felagund's enchantment had broken off mid-song, as if he did not know the outcome. He even had the memories to go with the story; he had to possess a vivid imagination. _But if I were the one who retold this Tolkien book and assigned myself a part in it, Snape mused, would I pick a character that died halfway through, or one that was still alive at the end? If I felt I had to be a singer and a harper, I'd have picked this Maglor guy, the one who walked in pain and regret ever after._ (This would bring the additional advantage of a werewolf-free existence.)

He shook his head in annoyance. Nonsense. He'd never recount a story from a book to explain his presence in a place where he was not supposed to be. Unless it was the _Life of Severus Snape the Permanently Misplaced_, he thought bitterly.

It still didn't add up.

The bulky volume, Granger's concealing charm removed, sat before him on his desk. Except its unrealistic contents - immortal, superior elves! Sentient dragons! A jewel becoming the Evening Star! - it had yielded nothing; the weird signs on the title page were merely an English summary. As Snape couldn't imagine the entire text was a cipher he was unable to decode, he was left with the choice between fact and fiction.

The former was blatantly absurd. So Felagund was either delusional and belonged in St. Mungo's, or a fraud who used a dark fantasy for his own obscure purposes and was laughing himself silly now together with Lupin. Once again, Snape felt his fury rise to the skies. Impersonating him! Creating Boggart Snapes and dressing them up!

But of course for some, even a modicum of respect was too much to ask. He hated both of them.

Abruptly the Potions Master jumped up, but after a brief bout of agitated pacing he calmed down far enough to recapitulate. He was certain he had exhausted all possibilities and reached the only logical conclusion. He had a case. He could take the incriminating book to the Headmaster and ask him to read it without risking to be considered paranoid and getting the usual, paternalising response. Never mind that he felt a headache coming on. Being right was worth some suffering.

'But,' the Devil's Advocate suddenly spoke up in his mind. 'But... would Felagund impersonate you, of all people, for a meeting with Black, and risk having him jump at his throat from behind a bush?'

Damn.

'And,' the Devils Advocate went on. 'regarding the use of Polyjuice - do you miss any boomslang skin this year? Would Lupin - a Potions brewer barely Dreadful enough not to be a Troll - be capable of brewing it?'

Damn again.

He needed a headache draught.

(TBC)


	11. Chapter 11

36. _Remus Lupin_

About nine o' clock in the evening, Remus finally returned to his rooms, not in the best of moods. He had been obliged to give Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle detention, even though he knew Draco Malfoy was the brain behind their badly executed prank. Unfortunately, the two other boys refused to tell on Malfoy, as if he had some kind of hold on them. Maybe he had. And then again, maybe they were simply loyal. Slytherin Hufflepuffs. Hard to imagine, and yet...

Looking up, he saw the next Slytherin approach through the corridor. The Potions Master had a book with a plain, dark blue cover in one hand.

'Good evening, Severus,' Remus said, dredging up his courtesy from underneath several layers of fatigue and exasperation. 'On your way to the library?'

'That's none of your concern, Lupin.' Without faltering in his stride, Snape gave him a berth just wide enough to be insulting but too narrow to signal fear.

Not that Remus didn't catch a whiff of it anyway. It smelled the same as it had twenty years ago. He sighed and said: 'Or were you planning to return Hermione's book?' It wouldn't do any harm if Snape knew that at least one of his fellow teachers was aware of the confiscation.

This time, Snape did halt. 'Ah, yes, that book,' he said as if he wasn't holding it in his hand. '_Very_ interesting to hear you mention it, Lupin. Don't think I'm unaware of its... recent history.' Swiftly, he strode on.

It was good to know the remark had registered, Remus thought; now he'd only have to make sure Snape wouldn't take it out on Hermione, and that much he was able to manage. But what the blazes had Snape been talking about? What recent history, beyond his own act of confiscation? Remus couldn't make sense of it.

All the same, his mood had definitely improved. And so he couldn't refrain from chuckling when, on entering his room, he saw Finrod sitting cross-legged on the couch, dressed only in a fraying red towel and busy darning a sock.

'If I didn't know better, I'd swear I'd acquired a house elf!' he said.

'But Finrod is your house-elf, good master,' the other replied gravely, gazing up from the sock. 'As the Potions teacher has been telling Finrod. So I is making myself useful. Did master know all his clothes needed mending, sir?' 

Remus's chuckle changed into a cough. '_Severus Snape_ said you were a house-elf?'

'So he said, lordly one. Finrod is your very own house elf. Is all in the Talking book, he tells me. Finrod is to serve you as his master, Mr. Lupin, sir. So I is dressing myself like the other house elves now.'

Remus joined him on the couch, looking the other's torso up and down. The bite scars had all but vanished; only a few fading lines remained. He resisted the impulse to touch them and find out if there was any roughness left.

'Maybe now good Headmaster Dumbledore will be admitting Finrod hasn't turned werewolf,' he heard Finrod say.

Was there a hint of amusement in his voice, or was it apprehension that made it sound a bit odd? _I don't think he's absolutely certain he won't transform_. 'Somehow, I doubt he'll fall for it,' Remus told him.

Finrod didn't look at him, intent on the sock. He had very nimble fingers - not to be wondered at in a harper.

'But let's assume you are a house elf for a moment.' Remus went on, more than ready to abandon the werewolf topic. 'House-elves must obey their masters. So, what if I tell you to stop darning?'

'Is good timing, Professor Lupin, sir,' Finrod replied promptly and cut the yarn with his perfectly white teeth. 'Socks are being all whole again.' He picked up the other sock from the armrest of the couch and held the pair up, beaming with pride, or faking it very convincingly. 'As good as new.' He was right. A real house-elf couldn't have improved on his work.

Remus smiled. 'They're yours. Which means, in case Snape omitted to tell you, that I've released you from my service, perceived or real. I am able to mend my own clothes, though their present state may have led you to believe otherwise.'

Finrod leaned back. 'I'd hate to think you're firing me because of any inadequacies on my part,' he told the ceiling, shedding the house-elf speech. 'I'd rather believe you're uncomfortable exploiting a race that seems to confuse service with servility, and humility with humiliation.'

That Remus was reluctant to order the Hogwarts elves around was true, though not for the reason Finrod had just mentioned. He had always taken them for granted. As far as he could tell most of them took pride in serving their masters well, an attitude that had little to do with abasement of any kind. If some of the masters chose to abuse their power, did this have anything to do with the position of house-elves in general? If the elves themselves chose servitude, did anyone have the right to consider it wrong? If it was a conscious choice, and not just a habit.

The idea of someone like Finrod - who had ruled as a king - doing household chores as if he were another Dribbly, was blatantly absurd. But why? And why would it be any less absurd when the Hogwarts elves carried out such menial tasks? Remus realised he didn't really know the answers.

'House-elves aren't humans,' he said at last, shrugging, 'and neither am I; that's probably why the idea of bossing them around doesn't sit well with me. It's the Headmaster who ordered Dribbly to bring up your meals from the kitchen.' Coward. Skirting the issue. _I'm just tired_, he told himself.

'Remus,' Finrod said, 'I'm not human either. And I strongly suspect I would not be considered the equal of wizards and witches, if they were to classify me. I believe your Potions Master hoped to take me down a notch by calling me a house-elf.' He finally turned his gaze away from the ceiling.

Remus promptly averted his; as the other still wore nothing but a towel he began to feel a voyeur. He wondered what Finrod was thinking, and decided to divert the conversation. 'Now that you mention Snape - what book did you say he was referring to?'

'He called it "the Talkin' book". I suppose he meant to say "Talking" - do you wizards have texts capable of speech?' Finrod smiled. 'I didn't have the honour of meeting any while browsing your shelf.'

Snape had stopped dropping his aitches and generally improved his pronunciation after coming to Hogwarts (though it had hardly improved his image). Had he reverted to his childhood speech? 'We have such books,' Remus replied. 'But they're mostly in the restricted section of the library and I've never heard any of them talk about house-elves. So I haven't got the foggiest idea what Snape meant, if he didn't give a title.' Unless... 'I'll ask him tomorrow.' Remus rose. 'Do you mind if I go to bed now?'

'One last question,' Finrod said. 'Severus Snape also told me that the escaped convict who seems to be such a threat to the students, is a friend of yours. Was he speaking the truth?'

Remus took a deep breath, glad he was looking at Finrod's throat instead of at his eyes. 'I shan't deny Sirius was my friend, once. Or so I thought. But he betrayed the man who was like a brother to him and killed another friend, and a dozen innocents. He was sentenced to life imprisonment. I haven't - seen him since.' If his memories of Sirius had been less incriminating, he'd have asked the other to read them. But Padfoot had to remain a secret, or Finrod would want him to go to the Headmaster and confess. _And if he does, how can I refuse without losing his friendship? It will rip me apart more painfully than the werewolf's teeth ever did._

'Then you're his friend no more?'

'I wonder if I ever was.'

Finrod raised his eyebrows. 'You didn't have to say that. Still, I'm glad you answered me.'

Remus felt empty, both morally and emotionally. This wasn't right. He did not deserve Finrod's trust, for he couldn't return it, not without giving himself away. It was unfair; he was unworthy of this friendship.

His retreat to the bathroom felt like a flight, though his steps remained calm and measured. For the umpteenth time he wondered if it would really be so horrible to go to the Headmaster and suffer the past to cast its shadows over him. Having a bad conscience was becoming a bad habit, much like an addiction one is unable to break.

That night, Remus lay awake for a long time, disgusted with his own cowardice. It was hours past midnight when he drifted off at last. Much later still, he woke briefly to the sound of the window being opened, but he was too sleepy to care.

37. _Crookshanks_

The Cat-kneazle Familiar who had Hermione Granger for a Witch left the castle by one of the secret exits. The black Dog had used this passage, too: his Smell lingered; though it was fading. The Dog was all right, as far as his Kind went, though maybe it was because Dog was not really his Kind. He did not bark much, he was not stupid or submissive or overbearing, and he had been badly wronged by the brown Rat. The Dog was dark on the outside, while the Rat was dark on the inside and deserved to be crunched. 

Crookshanks's mouth watered, even as he remembered his promise not to eat it even if he caught it. He paused for a round of grooming to get a grip on himself, temporarily dropping the slightly chewed piece of Paper he held between his jaws. He had tried to catch the Rat several times now - to take it to the Dog, of course. But the Rat was very clever, and as quick as could be expected of someone who feared for his very Life.

The Dog was afraid, too, though not for his Life. Crookshanks was not afraid, except to make his Witch unhappy. But doing right by the Dog was too important, so he could not in all conscience stop trying to catch the Rat.

Picking up the slip of Paper he continued down the passage until he emerged in the open on the Forest side of Hogwarts. Reaching the foot of the castle Hill he streaked across the moist Lawn like a Firebolt cleaving the chilly night. The Moon above was halved, lending him only a faint shadow to race at his side. The Moon Wolf dwelling in the castle was the Dog's friend, but the Dog was no longer the Moon Wolf's friend. This made the Dog very sad. Crookshanks wished he could tell the Wolf about this. But he always found himself in front of a locked Door during the nights when the Wolf was there.

The Forest loomed ahead. It held many good Smells and pleasant Spots, but there were patches of Dark as well, and traps that might not let him go. Those were to be avoided. It housed Creatures one could befriend and Creatures one did better without. Crookshanks was not familiar with the entire Forest yet, though one day he hoped to be.

He sensed that right now, its farther eaves hid Presences that were more like Absences, as they had no true Being themselves but mostly consisted of Emptiness and Hunger and Cold. They had no business roaming here. Maybe he ought to warn the Dog.

Suddenly he halted. His ears caught a small sound much closer by. This had to be a Presence, not an Absence, but of a kind he had never known before. It was entering the Forest and it walked on two Feet, but it was too light-footed to be Human.

Crookshanks withdrew beneath the appointed Bush to observe the passing of whatever it was, as curious as a Cat-kneazle could be.

38. _Finrod Felagund_

As soon as the cat came into view Finrod decided to follow it. He hadn't bothered to dress when he rose from the couch, so he would have to leave as he was, in his bare skin. Hurriedly he slung his robe around his neck, intending to put it on as soon as he could. The Eldar were sturdy and strong, but the nights were still cold, and after the Ice he had vowed never to freeze voluntarily. Quickly he left by the window for the second time, taking care to keep the ginger tom in sight. He had to run to keep up its pace, but the animal either did not notice it was being followed, or it did not care.

He hoped it would lead him to Humor; he had seen the two together before and there had been no hostility between them. The cat held something in its jaws, and Finrod wondered if it was taking the object to the black dog. When it slipped into the forest, he was about fifteen steps behind.

The quietly breathing forest was a maze of black, grey and beige. Looking up he could see a few of Varda's stars - the only familiar things in this unfamiliar place - twinkle through the trees. The wan light of the half moon, filtered by a web of twigs, cast enough light for his Eldarin eyesight to avoid stumbling over stock and stone but too little to penetrate the deepest gloom. Fortunately he saw the cat, still with the unknown object between its teeth, climb out of a shallow gully to his left and slip inside the darkness of a thicket. When it failed to reappear, Finrod melted into the shadows and put on his robes, rustling no more than a small animal scurrying through last year's fallen leaves. He could wait.

Listening to the nightly noises of the forest he sensed the same vague, distant threat that had been there on the day he met Humor. It was further away this time, but not gone. What was coming his way right now was more substantial, and a great deal noisier.

It was the dog, racing toward the thicket where Finrod had seen the ginger cat vanish and kicking up leaf-mould and small twigs with his hind legs. Before one of the bushes he sat down, sniffing and thumping his tail twice. 

After half a dozen heartbeats the cat appeared from under the bush, turning up its muzzle to offer whatever it held in its mouth to the black dog. Finrod bent forward. He could actually hear the cat purr.

Humor opened his mouth in a canine grin. Then he raised itself on his hind legs, stretching up, his form blurring and shifting - and the next moment a human being stood where the dog had been. A man, tall, emaciated, face like a skull, matted, night dark hair hanging to his elbows and claw-like hands. He wore rags instead of robes and an invisible cloak of dark doom. Even in human form he looked like a harbinger of Death.

'Thank you,' he said in a hoarse voice. He took the thing from the cat's mouth and stared at it as if it were a Silmaril from Morgoth's crown.

After a while he blew on it (to dry the cat's saliva?), waved it through the air and tucked it away among his rags. When he knelt down to pat the cat Finrod decided it was time to show himself, sensing that the man was about to change back into a dog.

He stepped out of the shadows. Sirius Black?'

The man's wheeled, and Finrod could smell the shock and fear he exuded. 'I mean you no harm,' he said quickly, showing his hands. 'Look. I have no wand.'

The other breathed heavily, staring at him with eyes that seemed grey-blue rather than pure blue now.

'You have seen me before - Humor...' Finrod went on slowly. I knew there was more to the black dog than met the eye.'

The cat, its ginger hairs raised, crept slowly towards him with its belly close to the ground; was it trying to protect the human? Finrod almost smiled, but it would be inappropriate in the presence of this suffering soul. 'I know you are a wanted man. They say you are evil: a traitor, a murderer, come here to kill a student by the name of Harry Potter.' Sirius Black made an abrupt movement; Finrod sensed how part of his fear turned to guilt, thick and oppressive. The shadow of a moving branch rippled across his face.

'But having seen the dog's mind, I am not sure what to think,' Finrod finished.

The cat halted. The gaunt man did not reply but merely stared at him, still taut as a bowstring and ready to bolt like a wild creature. If Finrod was any judge of mortal men, he would say that Sirius Black's grasp on his own humanity was tenuous.

Finally, the other opened his mouth. 'No wand, eh?' he croaked, still crouching on the forest floor. 'Seen you with the Willow. Heard you. Bet you don't need one. Where's the rest?'

'The rest?'

'Aurors. Ministry types who'll pounce on me once you've lulled me into a false sense of security. Dementors.'

Finrod shook his head. 'I came alone. Straight from Remus Lupin's rooms. What are -'

A strangled sound from Black interrupted him. 'Remus... He's here?'

If Finrod had been wondering whether Snape was right to suggest that Remus was in league with this man - and he realised now that he had - this was his answer. 'He's a teacher at this school.'

'What did he... say about me? Warned you against the mass-murderer Black?'

Finrod hesitated. 'He doubted your friendship,' he replied finally. To his left a tree, swaying in the nightly breeze, rubbed its branches together with an eerie creaking noise.

Black groaned, his bony fingers digging into the leaf-mould. 'Serves me right for distrusting him.' His too bright eyes - did he have what mortals called a fever? - stared into the middle distance for a while. Then he blinked, baring his teeth in a grimace. 'When you see Crookshanks - that's my ginger friend - chase a rat, lend him a hand, will you?'

'Mr. Black,' said Finrod, who began to doubt seriously if the man was in his right mind, 'if you want me to catch rats for you, I'd like to know why -'

Suddenly, the other shivered, breathing heavily - and then he began to whimper. Expecting to see him transform into Humor, Finrod watched him intently.

But Sirius Black remained a man. Instead of transforming, he retreated on all fours, trying to hide beneath the thicket, pressing against it as if trying to melt into it. A few twigs snapped. Following Black's stare, Finrod saw a shape approach slowly through the forest, gliding rather than walking. It was about fifty feet away and seemed taller than he was, cloaked, a hood completely obscuring the face. This was the source of the cold shiver he had felt earlier, Finrod realised - and the cause of Black's dread.

With a hiss the ginger cat darted away through the gully. Black sank to the ground, breathing in audible gasps, and the hood turned into his direction, as if it was searching for him. So the wizard was the target? Without thinking twice Finrod stepped between hunter and prey. 'Who are you? What do you want?' he asked. 

The figure did not reply, nor did it halt or even waver. A claw slipped from the folds of the cloak, glistening wetly in the dim moonlight. Finrod felt his skin crawl but stood his ground. 'Speak!' he commanded, drawing himself up. He ought to be able to see the thing's face by now, but he began to wonder if it had one.

An image assailed his mind, unbidden: a cloaked, towering figure high upon a cliff overlooking the shores of Araman, about to utter a dreadful curse. He braced himself for the words he knew were coming, but nonetheless they hit him by surprise: _To evil end shall all things turn that ye begin well... slain ye may be and slain ye shall be... _

The figure was upon him, raising its slimy, scabbed hands to pull off its hood.

But even while Finrod remembered the words of the Prophecy they lost their sting. For him it had already come true; whatever he was doing here, he did in borrowed time. A gift. Being here was a gift, and he must find a way to use it well.

The stark image of Araman receded, to be replaced by something he had never seen, because the eye needs light to see, and this was Darkness, Emptiness, Hunger, a something that was nothing, a hole, a void. He was reminded of Sauron's pitch-dark dungeon, of the bottomless gorge of the wolf, and then, unexpectedly (or not) of the Ancient Spider, Ungoliant, of whom it was told that in the end she had devoured her insatiable self...

... and the thought came to him, crystal clear in its transparency, that all that nothing can feed on is nothing, because it cannot contain anything that is something...

... and then the darkness, the void, the emptiness, the hunger, bent toward his mouth to claim a kiss.

(TBC)


	12. Chapter 12

CHAPTER 12

(Yes, I'm evil. That's why this chapter doesn't start with Finrod.)

39_. Hermione Granger_

Hermione had lost count of the times she'd tossed and turned beneath the covers after waking up from fitful sleep. Falling asleep again was impossible, so she got up. Crookshanks was nowhere to be seen, apparently not yet returned from his nightly roaming. She dressed in silence while the other girls slept on and slipped out of her dormitory to descend the stairs by the light of her wand. When she stepped outside the Common Room Sir Cadogan didn't speak, and looking back she saw him doze in his frame. For a moment, Hermione wished she had the Marauder's Map to check if Professor Snape or Filch and Mrs. Norris were anywhere near, but as she'd told Harry to give the map to McGonagall it would be hypocrite to want it for herself now, and dismissing the thought she moved on.

She had slept no more than a couple of hours that night, assailed by unpleasant thoughts every time she woke up. In addition to losing Harry over a broomstick and risking to lose Ron over a rat, something else was wrong as well. When she remembered, it caused an unpleasant jolt in the pit of her stomach. Today after classes, she would have to hand in her Time-turner to Professor McGonagall. She would get it back on Monday, her Head of House had said, unless examining it would take longer than the weekend.

'But I need it, Professor!' Hermione had begged when McGonagall informed her yesterday after dinner.

To no avail. 'You can miss a few Muggle Studies and Ancient Runes classes, miss Granger. It's not as if you're in any danger of failing any of your subjects,' was the answer, and that had been the end of their exchange.

Hermione did her best to believe this was not a punishment for reporting Harry's Nimbus 2000, but it didn't work. And it wasn't fair. The argument 'for your own good' seemed a great deal less appropriate when Professor McGonagall had used it against her yesterday than it had done when Hermione uttered the same words to Harry. The broomstick was possibly hexed by a dangerous ex-servant of He-who-must-not-be-named; the Time-turner was safe, coming from the Ministry of Magic, and she wasn't even Black's prime target. Moreover, she knew there was nothing wrong with the thing; using it was a little tiring, but that had been a calculated risk from the beginning. No reason for concern. Her situation wasn't really comparable to Harry's. Yet the Professor had acted as if it was. 

Though she hadn't consciously decided where to go, at some point she noticed her feet had led her to Professor Lupin's quarters. Gazing at his name plate - it hung ever so slightly askew, she noticed - Hermione wondered how sneaky it would be to ask him to intercede on her behalf. She wasn't supposed to tell anyone else about the Time-turner, but surely Professor Lupin would be accommodating and find a way. It wasn't as if he didn't have a little secret of his own.

Or maybe more than one. She remembered the blue-robed stranger in whose company she had seen him, several nights ago, and the equally blue-robed Professor Snape she had encountered in his rooms... Yes, she figured Professor Lupin would be willing to help her. Though maybe not if she woke him up right now. Though if he hadn't locked or warded his door she could take a peek inside his sleeping room first.

She was still hesitating when the door was opened from the inside - by the Professor himself. He was fully dressed and looked a little preoccupied. 'Hermione!' he said, raising an eyebrow. 'What are you doing here at this hour? It's half past five in the morning.'

'I woke up and was unable to fall asleep again,' she explained. 'But, er - you're up, too, sir.'

'I was having the same problem.' He smiled faintly, though the preoccupied look didn't leave his eyes. 'Were you waiting outside my door?'

Hermione swallowed. 'I - I need your help, Professor.' Now she had taken the first step.

'I assume we're talking about your book?' Lupin asked. 'I've made sure Professor Snape knows that I know he has it. I can't imagine he'll keep it much longer.'

'That's very kind of you.' Maybe she shouldn't bother him about the Time-turner after all. But now that he'd mentioned Snape... 'I met Professor Snape in your quarters a few days ago,' she ventured.

Professor Lupin nodded. 'He told me so.'

'But it wasn't him!' she blurted.

The Professor stared at her, his eyebrows raised. 'I suggest we don't discuss this standing outside my door,' he said at last. We could go inside, though I doubt it would be the appropriate thing to do... so I think I'll walk you back to the Gryffindor Tower. I shan't order you to return to bed, but it is still night, and you should not roam the corridors, Hermione.'

Hermione smiled politely. Though she was disappointed at his suggestion, she didn't have a good reason to refuse.

'So you believe it was not Professor Snape you saw in my rooms?' he asked, when they were on their way. 'Why is it so unthinkable that he should wear blue robes?' 

'It wasn't the robes,' she replied. 'Not at first. But he didn't seem to know me. He didn't even once call me "Miss Granger", and it was more than a two sentence exchange.' 

'Perceptive,' Professor Lupin said.

Proudly she continued: 'And when I entered the Library he was already there, though I'd left your rooms before he did. And he was wearing black, as always.'

'He could have flooed to his quarters, quickly changed robes, and still reached the Library ahead of you.'

'Could be.' Hermione remained sceptical. 'But he denied having worn blue robes. He suggested I had been hallucinating.'

Professor Lupin glanced aside. 'Maybe you did?'

Hermione frowned. Time to mention the other occasion when she'd seen those blue robes, even though it meant confessing she had been out of bounds. 'But that wasn't the first time I saw those robes,' she began hotly, 'though it wasn't Snape who -' She fell silent, realising he'd been teasing her, but even as she did he stopped smiling.

Oh no! She had definitely been out at midnight, on that other occasion. How many points would he take from Gryffindor? Why hadn't she thought of that before - because he was such a kind man? Because she was tired and losing her edge? She waited for the verdict.

It didn't come. 'Tall and blond?' he asked. 'Long hair, braided?'

And shining. Hermione nodded.

'He's a guest,' Professor Lupin explained, walking on again. 'An involuntary guest, to be precise, the victim of some hex or curse that made him end up here at Hogwarts. We're investigating the matter, and we hope to be able to send him home soon, but there are - complications.' He paused, appearing to consider for a few moments. 'I'm afraid I can't tell you more. Less than half a dozen people know he is here - more than enough. Hermione, promise me you won't mention Finrod's presence to anyone -'

She gasped, one hand flying to her mouth, frozen on the spot. _What? What have I done?_

Professor Lupin halted as well. 'What's the matter?' he asked, full of concern.

_Finrod Felagund, here at Hogwarts? I have conjured up Finrod Felagund from The Silmarillion?_ 'It's nothing, really. Just a yawn. Lack of sleep, Professor,' she said, taking a deep breath against the dizziness that threatened to overwhelm her. 'I won't say a word about it. Promise.' _Finrod, at Hogwarts? But he can't be real, can he?_

'Excellent,' Professor Lupin replied, though he was looking slightly sceptic. 'In that case I'll speak with Professor Snape and ask him to consider returning your book.'

Oh dear. He was such a kind man. Hermione felt ashamed that she'd even considered bringing up his - condition.

'So, what is the title?' he inquired casually. 'Just to make sure Professor Snape doesn't fail to, um, remember which book it was.'

'The Silmarillion,' she replied. 'And the author's name is J.R.R. Tolkien.' _Finrod Felagund. Here at Hogwarts. I must see him! I must!_

'Ah!' Professor Lupin said almost eagerly. 'The talking book!'

She shook her head. 'No, not a talking book. The author was a Muggle, and the name is spelled -'

'It's all right, Hermione. Just joking.' His voice did sound a bit odd, though. 'The Silmarillion,' he repeated. 'By J.R.R. Tolkien. I'll do my best, Hermione.'

'Thank you so much, Professor!' If only he knew...

He didn't take the hint but continued to accompany her; apparently, he doubted she would make it back to the Tower on her own, though it wasn't her Sirius Black was after. All the time, she was keenly aware of him; he kept walking closely beside her. _Werewolves are_ not _dangerous unless the moon is full, she reminded herself._

Back in the Common Room she sank down on a couch, realising she'd entirely forgotten to bring up the Time-turner. And what if Professor Snape had read The Silmarillion and knew Finrod was here? Hermione wondered if conjuring up a character from a book was considered Dark Magic in the Wizarding World, what the punishment would be (would they expel her?) - and how many volumes she'd have to consult to solve the problem.

Where will I ever find the time now? she thought despairingly.

40. _Sirius Black_

Dementor.

He curled up like a foetus. They were coming for him. _That will be life in Azkaban for you, Black._ Voices crying horror. _How could you, Sirius! James and Lily... They're dead, Sirius, both of 'em... _Chilling laughter. _You. Traitor. Murderer. As black as your name._ He was freezing, shuddering, eyes squeezed shut. Whimpering like a homeless dog - but he couldn't change into Padfoot. He was being pulled apart.

Laughter again. But why did it sound different this time, and where had the cold gone? Blinking furiously, Sirius managed to open his eyes. With great difficulty, as if the air itself had become viscous, he turned his head to where he had seen the Dementor approach.

There was no Dementor within sight, only the tall stranger who called himself Finrod. He seemed to be holding up something. It was too dark for Sirius' human eyesight to be certain, but it looked like...

... a Dementor's cloak?

'What happened?' he croaked, sitting up awkwardly. Trying to stand was not advisable. The lower half of his body felt as if he was the victim of a jelly-legs jinx.

Finrod turned the frayed cloak inside out, examining it as if he was searching for the Dementor's remains. 'I don't know,' he replied at last. 'Whatever was inside this cloak kissed me, but it had no mouth - just an empty hole. Nothing, in fact.' Gingerly, he touched two fingers to his lips. 'Rather disconcerting, a not-kiss from a not-mouth.'

'So that's why you laughed?' The fellow had to be insane. Too bad. Sirius had just begun to think this was someone who might actually listen first and judge later.

'I laughed with relief,' Finrod replied. 'At first, it was a frightening experience, but nothing is... nothing, even if it wears a cloak to hide it. Not something worth fearing.'

'But laughter is its food! Dementors feed on happy thoughts and memories!' objected Sirius. 'So how could it vanish when you laughed?' He was not having this conversation, really. It would be too daft.

'You don't understand. I laughed because it was nothing, and not the other way around. Or so it seems to me now.'

Realisation hit Sirius then: the stranger had saved him. Did he owe the fellow a life debt now? Or rather, a soul debt? Abruptly, all his anger and frustration boiled over. If he had a wand he'd have been hard put not to hex Finrod all the way back to where he came from, wherever that might be. 'That's rubbish! It can't have been nothing!' he yelled. 'When a Dementor kisses you, it sucks out your very soul! What remains is an empty shell.'

With a brief glance at the empty cloak draped loosely over his arm Finrod replied, as patiently as if he were addressing a small child: 'Do I look like an empty shell? So, no, I don't think that this... Dementor sucked out my soul. But then, as long as it is in good shape my body is rather strongly attached to my soul.' He laughed softly.

It wasn't a happy laugh. If anything it held regret, and Sirius felt a shiver run down his spine. Not chilling or unpleasant - more like the shiver of fear and pity one felt for the sad fate of another. 

Still, it was unbearable. He'd had more than his fair share of shivers in Azkaban. The Dementor had come too close. He would have no more of this weirdness. No man was supposed to react to those filthy creatures the way this being had, deceptively normal though it looked. Sirius cleared his throat. 'If it didn't suck out your soul, I bet you don't have a soul. Are you even human?' _His eyes. I should have realised before how alien his eyes are._

The other shook his head. 'No, I am not human. But if you believe that only humans have a soul, your view of Creation is limited. Would you deny the angry willow a soul? Would you deny the ginger cat a soul? The rats you want me to catch? Would you deny' - and his pupils glowed in the dark - 'that a werewolf has a soul?'

At that, Sirius rose to his hands and knees, the weakness gone from his legs. There was no way in hell he would discuss Moony with an alien. With a growl he transformed, and Padfoot turned his back to Finrod.

'Wait!' the other cried. 'Please!' But Padfoot didn't want to wait, nor was he here to please others. He stalked off, hackles raised, managing not to run until he was certain his departure could not be mistaken for a flight.

41. _Remus Lupin_

When the portrait hole closed behind Hermione, Remus returned to his quarters to see if Finrod had reappeared yet. As it turned out he had: he was lying on the couch, one leg drawn up, arms behind his head. A formless heap of what looked to be black cloth was lying on the floor in front of the couch. Approaching, Remus saw that Finrod was staring at the ceiling, his eyes unfocused, as if he was in trance.

Remus picked up the black thing, illuminating it with his wand-tip. It was a garment, a long cloak with a hood, frayed, foul-smelling and clammy. He dropped it in disgust. 'What the hell is this?' he said.

The next moment, he jumped back with a yelp. Finrod's eyes focused immediately and he leaped to his feet, resembling nothing so much as an animal startled from sleep. His hands were raised as if to fend off an attacker but when he saw Remus he lowered them and sat down on the couch. 'It wasn't my intention to scare you; I must have dozed off after I came back. I was having a rather vivid dream. Were you out looking for me?'

Was it imagination, or did he sound guilty? As well he might. 'I intended to,' Remus replied, 'but I got distracted. Do you always sleep with your eyes open?'

'As do all of my kindred.'

_Weird. Don't their eyes dry out?_ Remus gestured towards the crumpled piece of cloth. 'And do you happen to know what this is, by any means?'

'What is it you want to hear?' Finrod inquired blandly.

Shoving the cloak aside with a foot, Remus sat down beside him. 'Whatever wisdom his Majesty deigns to impart to me?'

Finrod laughed softly. 'It's not an attribute I took along to feign a more convincing Snape, if that's what you think.' 

'Then what is it?'

'A Dementor's cloak.'

'Let me get this straight,' Remus said, after a brief silence. 'You leave these quarters in the dead of night for a stroll across the Hogwarts grounds. You encounter a stray Dementor. It's rude enough to give you the cold shivers, so you appeal to its sense of decency and talk it into handing you its warm cloak by way of compensation?'

'Enlighten me, Remus. Is that wizarding humour?'

'Werewolf humour, perhaps.'

Finrod smiled wrily. 'As it is, I did speak to this Dementor. But all it did was open its mouth, or whatever it was, to kiss me.'

Remus couldn't help gasping, every trace of amusement gone.

Finrod tried to explain what he thought had happened, but Remus doubted that he knew what to make of his brush with the soul-sucker. It could be true, as he claimed, that body and soul were more strongly bound together and harder to sever in those of his kindred. The people of the stars. But Remus had no way of knowing whether it was.

Instead, he concentrated on the thing that wasn't beyond his grasp. 'Who told you it was called a Dementor? I never did, and somehow I can't imagine it was Snape - or did he?'

'It wasn't Snape,' Finrod confirmed, as if they were playing a riddle game and he wasn't allowed to give straight answers. 

Remus had always been good at playing such games. 'It was Sirius Black, wasn't it?' he said.

Finrod nodded gravely.

(TBC)


	13. Chapter 13

CHAPTER 13

_41. _Remus Lupin _(ctd)._

_'It was Sirius Black, wasn't it?' Remus said. _

_Finrod nodded gravely._

'Did he' - _change into a large black dog, by any chance?_ 'Did he harm you in any way?' Remus heard himself say in a concerned voice. The wrong kind of concern, but it would do.

'Do I look damaged?'

'Not all damage is visible,' Remus answered. Seeing a wedge of grey light between the curtains he pointed his wand to open them and let the dawn in.

'He denied I had a soul,' Finrod said, 'because the Dementor didn't affect me. But as I know I have a soul, it didn't bother me too much.' He paused for a moment. 'There were more things he said that did _not_ make sense to me.'

Remus closed his eyes for a moment. He sighed. 'Well, a dozen years in the wizarding prison of Azkaban would be detrimental to anyone's sanity... What more did he say?'

'He suggested I'd go catching rats.'

'Rats?' Remus frowned. 'What for?'

'Maybe he eats them? Or he needs them to court the cat he has befriended.'

'Cat?' _A brilliant conversationalist, Remus John Lupin._ But why on earth would Padfoot consort with a feline?

'A huge, bow-legged ginger with a squashed face. Not the fairest feline in creation. I followed it from the castle and found Black waiting for it in the woods.' Finrod stretched his long legs. 'Do you happen to know any ginger cats living here?'

'Not personally.' Hogwarts harboured many dozens of students who all had their own familiars; it didn't take any kind of Arithmancy to figure out that one of them might be a ginger cat. Vainly Remus tried to remember if he had ever spotted one in the castle. Sirius must indeed have gone mental. Had he sworn vengeance to the entire rat race because poor Wormtail had had the courage to confront the dog? Was he enlisting the help of the castle's feline population? And if so, who would be next - Mrs. Norris? He suppressed a nervous chuckle when he remembered Minerva McGonagall was a cat animagus.

'The cat brought him something,' Finrod continued, seemingly oblivious to the ridiculous mental images Remus's mind was conjuring up against the boggart lurking in the closet of his heart. 'I couldn't see what it was. If it was food, it was a very thin wafer, seasoned with drool. But then I suppose escaped convicts hiding in the forest can't afford to be demanding consumers.'

Remus knew a provocation when he heard one. _How much does he know? Does he think the rats are for Padfoot?_ He was about to turn, hoping to see Finrod's expression, when something caught his eye. Above the lake, a number of dark spots appeared against the pale sky. They were rapidly growing larger. The first post owls, carrying messages and copies of today's newspapers. Remus opened the window, expecting his own Daily Prophet to be among them.

The owl unceremoniously tossed his copy on the carpet, and swerved to make another delivery without waiting for a treat. The first thing Remus saw was the left half of the screaming headline. **MINISTRY: BLACK TO BE -**

He flipped it over to read the other half, and froze.

**- KISSED ON CAPTURE.**

_Oh, Sirius_, he thought, and the thought of their ancient friendship stung his heart.

This was the final verdict. The mental axe. He was a moral failure. He had procrastinated too long. His inability to face the Headmaster's disappointment and displeasure had turned from error into crime. Until now, he had been able to tell himself that one day, he _would_ summon the courage to confess his youthful recklessness, his betrayal of Dumbledore's trust. Too late now. Seeing this headline Remus knew he would never give away Padfoot's secret. How could anyone principally opposed to the Dementor's Kiss deliver any man to this terrible fate - let alone an old mate? Not Lupin, the werewolf, by many considered a soulless beast. Not even when the other was a Black Wizard who had murdered his brother in heart and betrayed the soul of friendship. He couldn't; it was a simple as that.

And with that, a window in Remus's own soul was closed and shuttered; his conscience turned a blind eye to the potential consequences of his decision to do nothing, while his brain focused on other possible explanations for Sirius's ability to get inside the castle. It didn't have to be his dog form, or his knowledge of the various secret tunnels underneath Hogwarts castle, did it? What if Sirius had used Dark Arts he had learned from Voldemort himself to get inside? _He was always a very gifted wizard_, Remus told himself.

Picking up the Daily Prophet he proceeded to close the window.

'What's that?' Finrod asked.

'The paper. The main news item will interest you, too,' Remus replied casually, showing him the headline.

'Bright stars of Heaven!' Finrod exclaimed, staring at the front page. 'So I thwarted your Ministry of Magic?'

Startled, Remus realised what must have happened last night in the Forest. 'You mean you - you stepped between the Dementor and its prey?'

'I did.'

'And saved Black's soul?'

'So it appears,' Finrod said evenly, and without a trace of regret.

42_. Severus Snape _

After his encounter with the werewolf, last night, Snape had searched the library with the help of a complicated tracking spell. It involved many of the names - _the more, the merrier,_ he thought sarcastically - from the final part of The Silmarillion. He suspected this was a summary of The Lord of the Rings, what with all the upheaval about exactly such a piece of jewellery (and one bursting with dark magic at that, though this was neither here nor there). Executed properly, the spell ought to create a trail from the spot where the book containing those names had been last to the place where it was now. He bet it would lead him to the werewolf's quarters.

Unfortunately, it didn't work. So either The Lord of the Rings was about something different, or all traces of its removal had been wiped out. Snape rejected the librarian's outrageous suggestion that he had made a mistake casting the spell. That wasn't the problem. The problem was, that he was up against very powerful magic. He wondered if Black had somehow laid hands on the book.

The next day he read the Daily Prophet's main article and realised that Black (no doubt informed by Lupin that the Ministery had decreed the Kiss) would resort to desperate measures now. He had no other choice left than to seek out Dumbledore and show him that Mr. Felagund's had fed them a story from a book. However small, there was always a chance Dumbledore would change his mind about Lupin. One could always clutch at straws. It had worked once, a dozen years ago. And so it was that Snape steered his steps toward the Headmaster's office the moment his last morning class dispersed.

To his extreme annoyance, the werewolf was already there when the Headmaster let him in. This meant he would have to make insinuations rather than voice outright accusations and be gainsaid. But Snape wasn't going to back off now. He pressed the book, hidden under his robes, firmly to his chest.

'Ah, Severus. It's good to see you; I was about to floo you,' began Dumbledore, without offering him a sweet. Something had happened, then. 'The three of us have a number of things to discuss. Firstly, Remus has some interesting news. There was a Dementor in the Forbidden Forest last night, not too far from the castle.'

'Really?' That was not at all what Snape had expected. But he was hardly surprised to hear that the Ministry, eager to see Black Kissed, had tried to circumvent Dumbledore's restrictions and helped a Dementor or two to slip inside the castle gates. He looked from Dumbledore to Lupin. 'How do you know?'

'Finrod encountered it,' the werewolf replied.

So that was why he was here. Snape pounced immediately. 'And pray, what business had Finrod being there?' Not that he didn't know the answer, of course: hatching evil with a mass murderer.

'He was going for a stroll,' Lupin replied calmly, as if such was the most natural thing to do. As you know, Severus, he has to avoid being seen by the students, so he couldn't leave my rooms by day, when... disguising himself was no longer an option.'

'I take it the Dementor sucked his soul out?' Snape asked silkily. 'Or perhaps it found Black?'

Lupin's eyes narrowed a little, but before he could reply Dumbledore intervened, his blue gaze descending on the Potions Master. 'I suppose you have no idea how this Dementor came to be in the Forest, Severus?'

What was the Headmaster suggesting? Snape clenched his jaws to prevent his bile from running over. That he hated Sirius Black and would love to see him recaptured or Kissed didn't mean he was luring Dementors to the school!

He cleared his throat. 'Someone must have been thinking happy thoughts, somewhere inside the Forest. I assume Black has discovered how to get past the portrait guarding the Gryffindor Tower - though I really can't think how.' He stared pointedly, and viciously, at the werewolf. Lupin stared back, seeming unfazed. 'How unfortunate that our Mr. Felagund happened to cross the Dementor's path,' Snape finished.

'Unfortunate - for the Dementor,' Lupin said with a lopsided smile. He bent to pick up something from the floor beside his chair, something Snape hadn't noticed before. 'This is what it left behind when it vanished.' He held the thing up.

It was a Dementor's cloak, black, empty, crumpled and slightly pathetic to look at. Snape shut his mouth when Lupin's smile widened almost imperceptibly.

'Finrod tells me,' the werewolf said, that the Dementor tried to kiss him. But instead of leaving him soulless, it lost its own substance. If it had any to begin with.'

Impossible! Snape wanted to shout. 'A Dementor's kiss,' he hissed softly, vehemently, 'leaves no one unscathed. No one. Unless they're lying - or unless _they have no soul_. And what happens if a Dementor tries to kiss a soulless creature, is hard to predict.'

Albus Dumbledore sighed deeply and leaned back in his chair. 'Indeed,' he said, turning his gaze toward the werewolf with what looked remarkably like pity. Lupin paled a little, Snape saw to his satisfaction, though he didn't have the faintest idea what the Headmaster was getting at and knew it was no use trying to read the best Occlumens in the Wizarding world.

'Indeed,' the Headmaster repeated, I have been wondering if our estimated guest does actually possess a soul. Which brings me to the other thing I need to discuss.' He adjusted his glasses. 'After Finrod gave us his story, last Sunday, I remembered a book I read decades ago, while I was still teaching Transfiguration. The title was The Lord of the Rings.'

Lupin sat up abruptly. Snape nearly gasped. _The Headmaster_ had taken it - and he hadn't wanted Madam Pince to know. What was the old man up to?

'A popular book among Muggles,' Dumbledore went on, and also among Muggle-born Hogwarts students and some of their friends.'

'It was,' Lupin remarked. 'I remember Lily Evans being thoroughly pissed when Si - Black nicked her copy and somehow managed to lose it. I believe it was in sixth year. James kept combing the school out for months, hoping to...' He fell silent. Snape gritted his teeth. He did _not _need to be reminded of Potter and his infatuation for the Evans girl.

'He lost it?' Dumbledore said thoughtfully. Perhaps it was this copy, found in a broom closet many years ago.' He picked up a book from among the more than dozen volumes on his desk. It was a tattered copy, the front cover partly torn off, the back broken many times over, dog-eared, full of stains and with loose pages sticking out. He patted it affectionately. A dearly beloved piece of literature, to judge by its condition. Many a reader's intimate friend.'

A typical Muggle artefact, without any kind of protective charm. 'I doubt it, given the treatment it has suffered from those readers,' remarked Snape, who handled his books with a great deal more care than he spent on his hair. But Lupin muttered something that sounded like: 'For each man kills the thing he loves...'

Utterly inappropriate, but Dumbledore was nodding, sentimental old codger that he was. How often do we not treat those we love most in the worst possible way, despite all good intentions?' he said quietly. 'But let us not digress. I borrowed this from the library, because I remembered something.' He began to leaf through the sad excuse for a book. One of the loose pages floated to the floor like an autumn leaf from a tree.

Yes, there it is. Have a look.' He turned the book around on his desk, indicating the passage he wanted them to read. Snape bent forward, but quickly withdrew his head when the werewolf did the same and came too close for comfort.

Lupin glanced aside and had the audacity to smile at him. 'I'll read it aloud,' And raising his voice he began:

'_"We know many things," they said. "We have seen you often before with Bilbo, though you may not have seen us."_

_"Who are you, and who is your lord?" asked Frodo._

_"I am Gildor," answered their leader, the Elf who had first hailed him. "Gildor Inglorion of the House of Finrod."_'

Ah! thought Snape. Apparently, their "guest" was also mentioned in the other Tolkien book! Now he could pull Granger's copy of The Silmarillion from underneath his robes to unmask Lupin and his crony right in front of Dumbledore. It was all the more urgent as Black, who had undoubtedly been told about the Kiss, might resort to desperate measures any moment now.

He was about to produce the volume when Lupin surprised him by asking. 'Do you mean to say, Headmaster, that Finrod is a character from a book?' Trust that darned werewolf to try and avert suspicion by giving a ridiculous twist to the whole affair!

'Quick on the uptake, as always, Remus,' the Headmaster said.

What? Had Dumbledore lost his mind? Was he finally going senile? Apparently, for he went on: 'Once I found his name in here' - he tapped on The Lord of the Rings - 'the sad case of Ophelia Watershed came to mind. She was a seventeenth-century witch who conjured up a character from some Muggle drama by sheer force of emotion - the way untrained, youthful witches and wizards in distress sometimes cause magic to happen. But when Ophelia desired to marry this character, which bore a strong resemblance to a disreputable actor, her outraged guardian banished it back inside the text and bound it with a powerful spell. Afterwards, the play seems to have become one of the author's most popular dramas. The unfortunate Ophelia, however, promptly committed suicide.' He sighed.

'The maid's guardian used Dark Magic for his binding spell. My great-grandfather knew the man in his younger years. A real scoundrel, as his portrait used to say,' remarked an amused voice. The two teachers both turned to see the portrait of former Slytherin Headmaster Phineas Nigellus look down at them. 'And the play went suitably dark, too; all the main characters... bite it.' He stroked his pointed little beard with a loving gesture. If he hadn't been guilty of being Black's ancestor, Snape could have liked him without reserve.

'I do no think this is relevant at the moment, Phineas,' Dumbledore replied mildly. The portrait shrugged elegantly, and Snape and Lupin turned back toward the Headmaster. 'What is of concern, though, is that Finrod may have materialised at Hogwarts in a way similar to poor Ophelia's favourite character.'

Snape was speechless. Lupin immediately shook his head. 'But Headmaster, how can the mere mention of a name be enough to rouse the emotions necessary to create such an effect? What's more, our guest is called Finrod Felagund, not just Finrod.' There seemed to be a catch in his voice, but Snape wasn't sure. Who could fathom a werewolf's emotions?

'A good question,' Dumbledore replied. 'I have to agree that the matter may be more complicated still. Possibly, Tolkien has written more about this Finrod; I'm sure there are ways to find out. But if he is a fictional character, which would explain why the Dementor had no effect on him' - he cast Snape a brief glance - 'we'll have to send him back to his literary origins. Even if it means he will vanish from the face of the Earth.'

'Is that why you have been studying this text, Headmaster?' Lupin asked, indicating a volume on Dumbledore's desk that bore the title _Embodiment and Disembodiment of Fantastic Imaginings._

'That, and similar texts,' the old man confirmed. 'I actually found some spells and procedures that might serve, if my suspicions are correct.'

Though he didn't object, Snape could almost feel the werewolf bristle. For once, he found himself in agreement with Lupin, be it for different reasons. Much to his chagrin, he realised he couldn't show The Silmarillion now; Dumbledore would only see it as a confirmation of his wild theory and tell him to relax. In front of the werewolf. Again, it looked as if he was facing the real threats and dangers alone.

He rose. So did Lupin. The Headmaster said: 'I'll keep you informed, Remus. You, too, Severus. I may need your Potions expertise.'

Lupin nodded - and then, looking aside, he said casually: 'Before I forget to ask, Severus, did you return the book you confiscated from Hermione Granger yet?'

That he had the nerve to mention this in front of the Headmaster! Typical Gryffindor brazenness. And clever, in the usual superficial way. If Snape said 'no', Dumbledore would encourage him to be nice to Miss Know-it-all and bring the subject up again in the near future. It was difficult not to hurl the hardback straight at the werewolf's deceptively calm face. The volume solid enough to hurt.

'Do you want me to do it for you, Severus,' Lupin said? 'I need to discuss her vampire essay with her anyway.'

_He can't possibly know I brought it along!_ Snape thought. But maybe he could make the best of the situation yet. 'As it happens,' he said, 'I was going to return it today, Lupin. But if you wish to relieve me of the task, you're welcome.' Producing the book from inside his robes Snape handed it to him.

Dumbledore smiled as if he believed this was a first step towards friendship. Lupin's eyebrows went up briefly when he saw the title. Good! The werewolf wouldn't let the book disappear; he could easily guess Snape had read it. And no one would be more reluctant to tell the Headmaster of its existence than Lupin was - with the possible exception of "Felagund" himself. Gryffindors might have cheek, but Slytherins were cunning.

Severus Snape made sure Lupin saw his smirk when they said goodbye to the Headmaster and left his office.

(TBC)

_A/N: Reviewers, thank you for your compliments!_


	14. Chapter 14

CHAPTER 14

43. _Wormtail_

The cat, if it was a cat, had almost caught him in the dormitory. Its claws had raked his back and drawn blood. But its jaws had closed on empty air, and with a mighty leap - for a small rodent - Wormtail had launched himself from Ron's bed and made a dash for the nearest hole, which was underneath Harry's bed. As he squeezed through, his throat emitted a shrill squeak of pain, but at least the hole was too narrow for the cruel ginger monster, and he was safe. For now.

His back was afire, but the claw marks were superficial and he knew they would heal. After all, his paw had healed even though he had cut off an entire toe. Finger, he corrected himself for the umpteenth time. He had cut off his finger. For Wormtail it was a toe, but in reality he was a man named Peter Pettigrew, not a sentient rodent. _Don't ever forget it!_ Unfortunately, remembering his humanity brought along memories he'd rather suppress. Nightmares. Bouts of bad conscience. A painful shiver rippled through his furry, but no longer chubby body. A daily run for your life was not an exercise he could recommend.

Where next? The kitchens were out of the question; Crook - as he called the monster since he'd found out what name the pedantic girl had given it - had almost caught him there on two previous occasions. So were the dungeons, after the resident rats had attacked him and he'd barely come away with his life. Besides, the dungeons were Snivelly's territory, and Snivelly loved rats only as procurers of potions ingredients, such as livers and spleens.

Life was lousy, Peter Wormtail Pettigrew mused. No one loved him except the Weasley boys - and even their affection was meant for the pet, not for him. Not even his "friends" at Hogwarts had truly liked him. However hard he tried, he had never been up to their standards. They had merely tolerated him, in the condescending way reserved for harmless idiots you can send on errands nobody else wants to carry out. Well, Moony not so much. Kind, polite, mild-mannered, infuriating Moony, who was here as a teacher and still hadn't told the Headmaster about bloody Padfoot.

Moony, who'd probably hate and despise him even more than Padfoot, if he knew. Though Moony would ask why, at least. And the answer was easy enough: until the little Potter brat mysteriously offed him, the Dark Lord had been the biggest bully in the playground. Just like, back at school, James Potter and Sirius Black had been the biggest bullies in their year, something little Peter Pettigrew had sensed the moment he met them on the Hogwarts express. If you can't beat them, join them.

His back hurting worse than ever, Wormtail scurried along narrow passages unfit for anything larger than a rat until he suddenly found himself in a spot he didn't recognise. He could see well enough in the gloom, but what he saw was unfamiliar. Of course, the place was never quite at rest, so maybe it had shifted a little while his thoughts were occupied elsewhere.

The nearest way back to the man-inhabited world turned out to be a loose floorboard. Lifting it with his head he sniffed and caught a mixture of known and unknown smells. One of the more familiar scents rang a bell, but no more than that. He managed to push up a corner of the board and move it aside a little; then he scrambled out and crept a foot or so along the edge of a carpet. He sniffed and went still. There was something living in this room, but it wasn't human.

Wormtail looking about and up...

... right into a pair of piercing, sea-grey eyes in a sculpted face surrounded by long, blond plaits. The owner was bending over the armrest of a couch and gazing down at him. The rat froze. Who the hell was this - man? Yes, the unknown face was male. He thought he knew every adult here. He also thought he'd moved soundlessly. Apparently not.

'Greetings, little fellow,' said a melodious voice. 'No need to be paralysed with fear. I am no rat-catcher, though someone recently tried to turn me into one.' Suddenly, a frown appeared on the stranger's face frowned. 'But you're wounded. Someone did try to catch you, it seems.' He smiled, without showing his teeth. 'If you could decide to trust me, I could take a look at those scratches.'

The voice was kind and held both a promise of relief and a hint of benign power. It was hard to imagine the owner had evil intentions. Creeping forward a few inches, Wormtail gaze up, his whiskers twitching. A long arm was lowered slowly to the carpet. The hand attached to it looked safe: the palm was turned up. The rat found himself climbing on the outstretched hand. He let it lift him, thinking vaguely that he still had the advantage of surprise. He could always transform, hex and Obliviate the man, if need be.

A large head bent over him to examine him, and the wide mouth, less than a foot above him, told him that his wounds were more painful than serious. A finger carefully touched his injured back. To his surprise a warm sensation flooded him, while the burning diminished. A Healer? Had they added a Healer to the Hogwarts staff? he wondered. But the man didn't even have a wand!

'I'm no Healer,' said the mouth. 'I've dealt death too often. Still, there is some healing power left in me to alleviate pain. This should help.' Gingerly he stroked the rat's fur, avoiding the scratches. Relaxing, Wormtail began to give himself over to the pleasure when the voice suddenly went on: 'I wonder if there isn't more to you than meets the eye.'

_His bright, piercing eye._ What did it see?

The man frowned, and his hold on the rat seemed to grow a little tighter. Wormtail tensed, ready to bolt.

The next moment, an alarming noise just outside the window made him jump. Balancing on the ledge, nose pressed against the windowpane, was Crook. The ginger horror was emitting the blood-curdling kind of yowl usually reserved for rival cats in territorial conflicts. A feline war cry.

'Sorry,' Wormtail heard the man say over the thudding of his little rat heart. 'But I don't think I'll open the window for you, fierce hunter.'

It wasn't reassuring enough, and panic too over. Shrieking, Wormtail jumped down and fled.

44. _Minerva McGonagall_

Hermione Granger was in the library, bending over a piece of parchment behind a pile of books high enough to hide her from sight. Of course, no other student would gather a pile of books high enough to hide behind. The Deputy Headmistress was unable to suppress a smile - until the girl, realising the game was over, slowly looked up from her writing.

'Miss Granger,' Minerva McGonagall said. I was under the impression we had an agreement?' One of the books was about time-travel, she saw.

'But,' Hermione said. Minerva waited. 'Something happened,' the girl continued, gazing up at her Head of House with a mixture of apprehension and defiance. She lowered her voice. 'I really can't give it back yet, Professor, but tomorrow-'

'Today, I think,' Minerva corrected her in a firm voice. She looked about to make sure Irma Pince and the other students currently perusing the library were out of earshot. 'You are not supposed to use the Time-turner for anything but your extra classes, Miss Granger. It's dangerous to meddle with Time. I told you about the risks at the start of the year, and I'm disappointed that you, of all people, apparently fail to grasp this. If you are in need of help, tell me. Do not try to solve things on your own.' She gazed pointedly at the pile of books.

'But, Professor McGonagall...' Hermione seemed unable to decide between an indignant protest and a weary-eyed plea.

What, for goodness sake, had she been up to? In an unguarded moment, Minerva found herself wishing she were Albus, able to use Legilimency to find out more. But being rather fond of her own privacy, she knew she shouldn't want such a thing. 'Please, tell me.' She tried to sound less disapproving. 'What happened, Hermione?'

Just when she thought the girl would confide in her, Hermione shook her head. 'That's part of the problem, Professor. I'm not sure - that's why I'm studying these books.'

Feeling rebuffed, Minerva held out a hand. 'You are free to continue your research when you've handed me the Time-turner. If you get stuck somewhere you can always come to me, or to one of my colleagues. Which reminds me: Professor Lupin wanted a word with you, but you were not in the Hall during lunch.' _Again. I don't think I was ever that thin. And she looks as tired as Remus does._ She stretched out her arm a little further. 'The Time-turner, please, Miss Granger.'

The fight was too unequal, and Hermione's resistance caved in.

'Thank you,' Minerva said, pocketing the device. 'I hope I'll be able to return it soon.' She allowed herself a ghost of a smile. 'You may want to know there was nothing wrong with Mr. Potter's new Firebolt; he's got it back now.'

She knew the two had been at odds about the broom. But if she had hoped to cheer the girl up by suggesting that she and young Potter could put the Firebolt affair behind them, she was mistaken. 'I know,' Hermione said, hunching her shoulders. 'I'm happy for Harry, and he's happy, too. Now it's Ron looking daggers at me. It seems my cat Crookshanks ate his rat.'

It was all Minerva could do not to snicker. She knew the rat, an outrageously long-lived and ugly little rodent that had been in the Weasley family for more years than seemed humanly (rodently?) possible. But it didn't look well this year, and on one occasion, roaming about in Animagus form, she'd actually been tempted to end its miserable existence. _I must remember to congratulate my ginger friend._

_Not very nice, Minerva. The boy doesn't deserve the loss._

'I'm sure he'll get over it,' she replied. She was about to turn away when her eyes caught the title of another of the books Granger was studying. _The Effects of Evanesco: Observations and Speculations._

'A rather advanced book for your level,' she remarked. 'You'd better limit yourself to what you really need to read this year, which is more than enough already.'

'But I have to satisfy my curiosity, Professor McGonagall,' Hermione countered, unabashed.

_Or you'll die?_ Minerva suppressed a snort. With a nod she left Hermione to her studies to carry out some preliminary tests on the Time-turner. On her way to her office, she decided to request the help of the Charms and Defence against the Dark Arts teachers once again. After all, Filius and Remus had both done a fine job on young Potter's mysterious broomstick, too.

45. _Finrod Felagund_

The woodcarving was finished. Finrod didn't have the original at hand to make a comparison, but his memory told him the likeness was striking enough for the wooden version to be recognisable, even though the colour was wrong. Abandoning the idea of painting it he hid it under the couch. It was meant to be a farewell present for Remus.

He would not stay, that much he knew, with the certainty of foresight - for in Sauron's pit he had seen the Halls of Mandos with the eyes of death, and they did not exist here in this reality, in this Wizarding World. What he did not know was the manner of his departure, nor the time.

Hopefully it would be before the next full moon. If he should turn into a werewolf - and Finrod could not ignore the possibility that he would - Severus Snape, the man who lived of his grudge, would warn the people who disposed of Dangerous Creatures and point an accusing finger at his fellow teacher Remus Lupin. It was plain that he didn't believe Remus was innocent, and his fear and loathing of werewolves was great. The thought that Remus would suffer because this was a world were a man could change into a monster against his will and yet be made to pay for it, was outrageous. But he did not harbour the illusion that he could do much against a group of wizards.

Outside the window, dusk crept in from the East, stealing light and colour from the world. Gazing at the waving trees of the dark forest, Finrod wondered where Black - in whatever shape - would be, and if he would get to see him again.

Behind him, the door opened and Remus came in, reading while he walked, and closing the door with a foot. He sauntered on without taking his eyes from the page until his knee hit a table leg.

'Bother,' he said mildly.

'Must be a fascinating book,' Finrod remarked, while the wizard rubbed his knee. 'Maybe I should take a look at it, too, once you're finished.'

Remus straightened. 'Oh, I don't think you'd want to,' he replied. 'This is a textbook about magical creatures, useful to me as a teacher, but of no particular interest to you.'

The word best fit to describe the look in his eyes was furtive. He closed the dark blue volume and put it on the table, the spine facing away from Finrod - who immediately knew that from now on, he had better keep an eye on it and watch out for an opportunity to lay hands on it.

'I hadn't expected to see you yet, Remus,' he said. 'Isn't it dinnertime? Or did you return to refresh yourself? You do look a little heated.'

If Remus went to the bathroom, he could venture to take a look at the mysterious book before the wizard could pull a magical trick on it; Remus had drawn his wand almost absent-mindedly and was playing with it now, but Finrod wasn't fooled.

Neither was Remus, it seemed. Really? I feel fine,' he said sounding genuinely surprised. 'I only wanted to ask if you were all right here, alone as you are. By the way, would you mind closing the curtains, now that you're standing at the window anyway?'

He would bespell the book as soon as Finrod turned his back 'I wonder, could you close them by waving your wand?' he inquired.

Remus raised an eyebrow. 'I suppose so. It just didn't occur to me.' He studied his wand, stalling for time.

They might have gone on like that for quite a while if someone hadn't knocked on the door right then.

'Who's there?' Remus asked.

'Hermione Granger,' came the reply. 'Can I come in, Professor?'

The wizard turned to Finrod, who expected he would be told to hide from the visitor and had half a mind to stay where he was. But Remus merely said: 'Hermione knows you're here. She has even seen you once - as yourself, not as Snape, I mean. So it won't do any harm if I let her in - unless you don't want to be seen?'

Finrod gave him a mocking smile. They were both aware of the game they were playing. 'By all means, let her in.'

No sooner had she entered the room, or he recognised the girl with the bushy brown hair and the slightly elongated front teeth who had followed him here a few days ago, while he was wearing Snape's appearance. She looked unhappy.

Finrod, stepping forward, sketched a bow. 'Miss Granger.'

He had been unable to refrain from borrowing Snape's voice, and Hermione promptly giggled. But the giggle ran out of control, becoming shrill and nervous, while her cheeks went pink. She stared at him as if he had sprouted wings. 'You are Finrod, aren't you?' she whispered. 'Finrod Felagund.'

Keeping an eye on the blue book Finrod nodded, slightly baffled. By now he knew that wherever he was, mortals who saw him for the first time were prone to go wide-eyed. However, this was the first exaggerated reaction to his _name_ he had encountered at Hogwarts so far.

Suddenly the girl appeared to realise she was gawking. Quickly, she looked away, and turning to Remus she said, her voice struggling towards normal: 'Professor McGonagall told me you were looking for me, Professor.'

'Professor Snape asked me to return your book,' Remus replied with a smile. And to Finrod's utter disappointment he gestured towards the blue volume on the tabletop.

Hermione put out a hand, but Finrod beat her to it. His arm shot out to snatch the book from the tabletop. One glance at the spine told him this was _The Silmarillion_, by one _J.R.R. Tolkien._ A stylised flower crowned name and title, and now it was his turn to gape. It was the badge of Lúthien, daughter of Thingol of Doriath.

Finrod felt himself descend to wholly new levels of incomprehension. There ought to be no book in English about the Silmarils. It could not exist - and yet he was holding one. His hands seemed to open the volume of their own accord, approximately in the middle, and the words **OF BEREN AND LÚTHIEN** pounced at him from the top of the page.

Hermione's cry of dismay pulled him back to the present. From the corner of his eye Finrod saw Remus point his wand. 'Accio Silmarillion!' the wizard cried.

If Finrod had been prepared for the power of the magic involved, he could have made an attempt to resist it. As it was, The Silmarillion flew from his grasp. Remus caught it deftly with his free hand. He was shaking his head. 'No,' he said almost pleadingly. 'You can't. Please, Finrod, don't try to read this book. Believe me, you can't.'

(TBC)

_A/N. Thanks to all reviewers! (And Ija Ijevna, you'll get an answer, but not until the very end.)_


	15. Chapter 15

CHAPTER 15

45. _Finrod Felagund ( ctd)._

The girl's voice broke the silence following Remus's words, sounding reedy and small. Professor Lupin, can I have my book back now?'

For a moment, Finrod thought he heard the wizard murmur: _'Confiscated and highly dangerous,'_ but all Remus said aloud was: You shall have it back later, but we need to talk first, Hermione.'

'Yes,' Finrod said, forestalling the girl's objection, which he saw was imminent. 'We do. The three of us.' He turned to the wizard. 'Before you magicked the book out of my hands, I saw more than either of you are probably comfortable with. As it happens, my memory is strongly visual. I could quote every sentence written on those two pages - and explain to you what more they told me that was not there in so many words.'

The wizard nodded slowly, seeming to accept this. Hermione looked troubled. 'But sir - sire -my lord king - you aren't supposed to know what will happen after - the entire trage-' She faltered. 'I mean...'

Despite everything, Finrod couldn't help smiling at her determination to address him correctly. 'I know what you mean, Hermione. And - well, I concede you have a point concerning the rest of the story.' His gaze found the book in Remus's hands. 'Though I shall not deny that I am tempted, my heart warns me how little wisdom there is in desiring to know what is beyond my power to change. What I read, was all it took to grant me peace of mind concerning my worst fear.'

Wondering why Remus suddenly bit his lip at the words 'worst fear', Finrod raised his voice and recited:

'_"So deep was his anguish that he lay still, and did not hear her feet. Then thinking him already dead she put her arms about him and fell into a dark forgetfulness. But Beren coming back to the light out of the pits of despair lifted her up, and they looked again upon one another; and the day rising over the dark hills shone upon them."_

Blinking, Finrod paused for a few moments until he could see Remus and Hermione again. 'My friend Beren survived Sauron's dark dungeons, even though I died.' Seeing their dismay he went on: 'No need to protect me against the knowledge that this book describes my death. If you have read the tale of Beren and Lúthien, surely you realised that I was aware of my doom before I set out with the son of Barahir. So why would I be shocked to find that it came to pass?'

There was a sound of pages being turned. _'... and he knew that the oath he had sworn was come upon him for his death, as long before he had foretold to Galadriel,'_ Remus read quietly.

_'An oath I too shall swear, and must be free to fulfil it, and go into darkness. Nor shall anything of my realm endure that a son should inherit,'_ recited Hermione, her voice wavering.

Finrod nodded. 'That is indeed what I said to my sister. You seem to have read it well, that you know it by heart.' 

'Not well enough,' she whispered. 'I wanted you to live. I wanted it so much that I forgot all about your foresight and the Doom of the Noldor. I shouldn't have...'

Too young to grasp the implications of the Curse, Finrod thought, but the next moment he chided himself: until quite recently, he had also failed to grasp its full meaning. _The Music of the Ainur may be as fate to the Elder Kindred, but we do not know the melody until it actually reaches our ears._ How could he expect this daughter of Men to be wise beyond her few mortal years while he had not been wise beyond his own yeni? 

'Ah, but this shows what a compassionate soul you are,' he told her. 'Do not be overly distressed because the prophecy of a dark Doom slipped your mind.'

'I should have remembered and understood,' Hermione insisted stubbornly; the girl was not easy on herself. She turned to Remus. 'But... Professor Lupin...' The fingers of both her hands locked in some kind of wrestling match.

Remus had been leafing through The Silmarillion; now he gazed up. 'What is it, Hermione?'

The fingers unlocked. 'Have you ever heard of the case of Ophelia Watershed?'

If Finrod had been any less perceptive he'd have missed the wizard's reacton, subdued as it was - no more than a ripple across a smooth surface. 'I have,' Remus replied, 'though I'd be willing to bet my last knut you're the only student currently at Hogwarts who knows her name. What about her?' 

'Surely you understand what I'm getting at, Professor?'

'I believe I do,' Remus said gently, 'but all the same I won't ask him to leave - or propose to walk your back to your common room for another private chat.' He turned to Finrod. 'I apologise for my attempt to keep you in the dark. Some people are good at facing the facts' - he smiled wryly - 'and you have a right to know what is going on.'

46. _Remus Lupin_

The next day found Albus Dumbledore once more in Remus's quarters, about two hours before the Quidditch match Gryffindor versus Ravenclaw was scheduled to begin. Hermione, being the one who had created the situation in the first place, had come as well, on his own invitation.

It was Finrod who wanted to speak to Dumbledore, though Remus had tried to suggest it would be better if the Headmaster remain unaware of the existence of The Silmarillion. With only The Lord of the Rings to go by, his theory about Finrod's presence at Hogwarts remained debatable. For some reason - probably because he had concocted some kind of conspiracy theory - Snape had refrained from presenting the other Tolkien work as evidence, yesterday in Dumbledore's office. So it seemed they had better neglect to mention its existence.

But Finrod had insisted on a confrontation. Remus had the impression that being considered a figment of mortal imagination irked his strange friend somewhat more than he was prepared to admit in so many words. He also realised that Finrod could be extremely stubborn - and he had thrown his crown to the floor in a fit of anger once, when he was still inside his own history. And so, after a dispute he had no chance of winning, Remus had grabbed a handful of floo powder to call the Headmaster. 

Dumbledore, enjoying a cup of tea and a helping of chocolate from Remus's professional supply as a Defence teacher, sat listening patiently to their account, reading a relevant passage from The Silmarillion every once in a while. 'Well,' he said at last, stroking his beard and putting down his empty cup. 'It appears the riddle of your presence at Hogwarts has been solved now, Finrod.' He sighed. 'The truth must have come as a shock to you.'

'I fear I must gainsay you, Headmaster of Hogwarts,' Finrod continued. 'What you judge to be the truth, is an error in my eyes. I am fully certain that I exist, body and soul, thoughts and memories, hopes and dreams. Finrod Felagund is not the offspring of mortal thought, of fantasy shaped into word and image, devoid of reality and lacking a history. I know that I live, as you know that you live. Indeed, I could rightly ask how you intend to prove that it is not you, not the people in this place, who are mere shadows of being in a dream I dream, a vision I see on the treshold of death?' Suddenly and unexpectedly, he laughed. 'Who, indeed can tell if we do not all act our parts in a tale, told by a fool carried away by fancy?

Remus was fascinated, and not just by the way Finrod made his point. His manner of speech had changed; it was closer to the language of The Silmarillion than it had been before. Until now, he had adapted his speech patterns to those of Hogwarts, but today he seemed to be falling back on something more ancient. As if it came naturally to him.

_Or as if he's using the language of The Silmarillion to make us think so_, a more suspicious little voice said.

The shocked voice of Hermione Granger cut through his musings. 'But that's impossible. We're as real as can be. I'm perfectly sure I am nobody's dream or fantasy!'

It was almost a pity the girl had entered the Wizarding World too young to have read any Muggle philosophy yet. But Remus wasn't going to add any more titles to her TBR list, though he could think of a few.

'How can you be so certain?' Finrod asked, raising an inquisitive eyebrow.

'We can't,' Dumbledore answered before Hermione could. 'You could be right. This could be your dream, and you on the verge of waking. I can only tell you what I see and perceive, not what you may or may not be dreaming.'

'And yet you propose to force me back into this book with the help of your magic?'

'I would rather not force you.' Absently, the Headmaster waved at the teapot. It rose to refill their cups. 'Actually, I'm not even sure that it will work. But I am prepared to try.'

'You hope that I will comply and let you do as seems best to you to avoid' - a glance at Hermione - 'complications?' His gaze flicked briefly toward Remus before turning to the Headmaster again.

Finrod couldn't speek freely in front of Hermione, but the reference to what could happen when the next moon was full couldn't have been more obvious. And suddenly, Remus realised what it was the Headmaster was trying to do. By proposing to Banish Finrod back into The Silmarillion, Dumbledore was trying to protect him, Remus Lupin, a registered werewolf watched carefully by an ancient foe. Snape was poised to strike at the 'monster's' very first slip, real or perceived, and in all probability Dumbledore considered Finrod's removal from the scene the best solution.

And the Headmaster had a point. With Sirius prowling outside the castle and Sirius's former mate teaching inside, Snape could easily lose it. He had been known to do so before - that time when he went and joined Voldemort's Death-eaters.

Remus wondered why he hadn't seen this the day before. Because Finrod had become his friend, and he would be sorry to see him disappear? He had lost enough friends for a lifetime. Or did he fear for Finrod - fear that that someone so vibrantly alive would be reduced to letters in a book, scatterings of ink on sheets of paper, losing both soul and substance? Would this be any better than a Dementor's Kiss?

Such a beautiful sentiment... _But for you the real question is, if it would be better than McNair's axe or Azkaban - isn't it, Lupin? Will you speak out against Dumbledore's intentions?_

'That is indeed what I hope,' Dumbledore broke the silence.

'May I ask you, Headmaster Dumbledore, what you believe in your heart of hearts? Can a finite being truly turn an image residing in the imagination into flesh and blood and mind and memory? Purely through an overwhelming emotion?'

'Miss Granger is quite the witch,' the Headmaster remarked. 'And such things have been known to happen.'

Finrod did not give up. 'What If I tell you that your Divination teacher uttered a prophecy that fits my situation very well?'

Dumbledore's hand stopped halfway his beard. 'A prophecy?'

'The lady invited me to her tower room, and offered to divine my future by gazing into her crystal orb. Instead, she entered into a trance and spoke words in a voice not her own.'

'Trance?' Remus asked, more sharply than he intended too.

When Finrod nodded, the Headmaster asked: 'Do you remember what she said?'

'I remember it well.' Finrod face closed; his eyes hooded, his body gone still like a Muggle statue, as if it was already reduced to an image of life. 'These were her words:

_"I see a wolf. I see a hound. I see a maiden. Wolf and hound shall struggle fiercely. The hound prevails; the wolf runs; the doomed one shall live and the Deceiver flee to his dark master. The maiden holds the key to that which was wrought in the past and must come undone. The maiden holds the key."_'

The hearth fire hissed softly, but no one else made a sound. After a time, Remus rose and walked to the nearest window to gaze out, half hoping to glimpse Padfoot, half fearing he would. There was nothing to be seen outside, nothing out of the ordinary.

The previous day, between classes and also after Harry's Patronus lesson, he had checked every Silmarillion passage mentioning Finrod with the help of the index, and he had read the entire tale of Beren and Lúthien. He understood how Sybill's words could be applied to this story: Huan the Hound as the one who overcame Werewolf-Sauron, and Sauron himself as the Deceiver who fled to his master Morgoth, the Black Foe. The doomed one must be Beren son of Barahir, while the maiden was Lúthien Tinúviel, whose magic was the key to Sauron's dungeons .

Of course, there was a wolf here at Hogwarts, too. And a hound, or rather, a dog. And if the other characters were more difficult to fill in it could be because the events Sybill had spoken of hadn't happened yet. All the same, Remus felt a guilty relief for having a reason not to mention the dog. He could hardly be expected to dig his own grave. 

'It would fit,' Hermione suddenly said. 'Those words do fit the story of Finrod's last expedition as told in The Silmarillion. Though if it turns out Professor Trelawney read it, she probably -' 

'My dear Miss Granger,' said Dumbledore before the girl could commit the faux pas of calling a teacher a fraud to the face of her employer, 'if Professor Trelawney spoke in a trance, the odds are that it was a prophecy, indeed. This is easy to verify. If her words were truly prophetic, she will not remember them. However, this still does not prove they apply to Mr. Felagund's... situation.' His gaze landed on Remus, as if to ask his opinion.

Remus found himself tongue-tied, either on Finrod's behalf or on his own.

Someone chuckled softly. But it wasn't Dumbledore - it was Finrod. He appeared to have decided that amusement was the best option, as if Dumbledore's suggestions were a Boggart to be fought with a Riddikulus. 'We all believe what is most convenient to us. No argument will ever convince anyone with a reason to remain unconvinced. Do I lack a soul because the Dementor was unable to suck it out? Or do I have a soul, and did the Dementor fail for some other reason?'

Dumbledore nodded. 'Wise words... We choose our own beliefs; no one can possibly do more, as long as certainty is beyond our reach. And it is our choices that define what we are.'

'Wait!' Remus found himself saying, unable to help himself. 'A successful Patronus will shield the caster against a Dementor, and it takes a happy memory to conjure it.' He did not know why the idea of a soulless Finrod was so repulsive to him, but it was.

Hermione opened her mouth, but as she lacked a first-hand knowledge of the Patronus charm, he shook his head. 'I haven't finished yet. I know Finrod's no wizard and has no wand; that could be the reason why the Dementor got close enough with its mouth. But something must have warded it off - something that was strong enough to make it dissolve. Did you look at it, Finrod?'

'I did.'

'Then,' said Remus, your Patronus must be in your very gaze.' His eyes met Finrod's, and though he tried to stare into their light without flinching he had to look away after a while, feeling that he might turn blind if he didn't. He even understood why: there was too much darkness inside him.

'What is your happy memory?' Dumbledore asked Finrod.

'To have beheld the Light that was before the Sun and Moon before it was extinguished. To have been taught by the Powers who sprinkle the heavens with stars and release the winds, who form the earth and tend all that grows and lives on it, who speak with the music of water, who weave all dreams, spin all tales and soothe the souls of those that grieve. This is my happy memory, and though the primal Light is no more, I hope - I trust...' he paused for a moment. 'I am not sure how to render the word _estel_ in your language.'

'You mean to say that you have faith?' Dumbledore offered.

Finrod nodded courteously. 'Thank you. So let me put it like this: I have faith that one day, when Arda Marred is remade, I will behold this Light once again.'

Hermione was listening raptly and breathing swiftly.

Remus's chest felt painfully tight; for a brief moment, he felt ready to trade his own soul for such a shining memory.

Dumbledore leaned back, looking wistful. At last, he sighed. 'We will have to think this over. All of us. Choosing the proper path will take time, and time is what we are short of, right now: there's a Quidditch match to attend. We will have to postpone the rest of this discussion until later - with our honoured guest's permission, that is.'

'I can wait, Headmaster,' Finrod replied with a hint of mockery, 'Time is a commodity my kindred has in abundance.'

(TBC)

A/N: As I'll be away for two weeks, this won't be updated before the first Sunday in August. Thanks in advance for your patience!


	16. Chapter 16

CHAPTER 16

47. _Sirius Black_

All the way down the winding stairs to the common room, he cursed the redhead for waking up and screaming. Himself for getting impatient and slashing the curtains. The rat - Traitor! Scum! - for being so damned hard to catch, and for everything else. Except that fool of a Black's error of judgement, of course.

Upstairs, someone opened a dormitory door and he heard the first voices. He dashed toward the portrait hole and out, suppressing the desire to transform. Now left, past the statue of Lachlan. No. Approaching footsteps caused him to and run into the opposite direction. Around the corner and down -

Sirius cursed under his breath. Where were the moving stairs when you needed them most? He gazed into the gap, panting. Azkaban didn't breed athletes.

There ought to be another stair at the end of this corridor. If he managed to reach the first floor he'd probably be able to use the secret passage that led to the ramshackle shed behind the Hog's Head. Ha! This time, the stair he needed swung towards the landing just as he arrived there. He leaped onto it when it was five feet away and took the steps three at a time. Noises behind and above him told him that the living quarters of the castle had come fully alive now.

The next couple of floors offered no resistance. On the second floor, the stairs turned against him once more. He changed course, into a dimly lit corridor. Approaching the suit of armour near the Defence against the Dark Arts office he heard the sound of a door handle. Clutching his knife he slipped behind the armour. For once, he didn't mind being thin as a skeleton.

Two sets of footsteps. The door closed, and someone said: 'Lumos'. Subdued voices exchanged words he didn't catch. One pair of feet moved away, taking the wandlight along. Sirius listened, breathing soundlessly, but he heard no more sounds. Craning his neck he hazarded a look around the armour. The corridor appeared to be empty, though he couldn't see beyond the section where it lost itself in darkness. The unsteady light was coming from somewhere on the wall. The sounds that reached his ears were vague and far away. Carefully, he left his hiding place.

He froze - what was that, ahead and slightly to his right? His heart raced. Something had moved, but there was nothing to be seen, except the portrait of a lady in a Tudor cap. She was reading a book by the light of a candle, a little white dog dozing in her lap. The movement must have been her, turning a page, Sirius decided.

At that moment, she gazed up, and seeing his knife she gasped: 'Ai! Thou must be the blackguard who slashed the Fat Lady. Avaunt, or I shall raise the hue and cry!' Her lapdog woke and sat up abruptly.

Sirius grinned and made a flourish. 'Fear no harm, gracious lady. It's just a rat I'm after. The Fat Lady stood between me and my vengeance; convey my apologies to her, if you'd be so kind, but be silent now.'

Alas, the lady was not so kind, and his skull-like grin failed to charm her. She opened her mouth wide and began to scream at the top of her voice. The little white dog yipped furiously.

Sirius growled. A mere representation of past reality wasn't going to get the better of him! As he didn't have time to slash the silly bitch or her annoying pet he made a fierce cutthroat movement with his knife and darted past the Defence teacher's office. Only one floor further down - had that winding stair always been there? He didn't remember, and it didn't matter; apparently the castle was on his side again. 

Spiralling down, turning left, turning right; there it was, the spot he sought. At the entrance of the secret passage, to be opened by tapping a particular stone in the wall, he allowed himself a quick glance back. For a split second, the air behind him, about three feet from where he stood, seemed to ripple a little more than the flickering candlelight warranted. Then everything went still again.

He hit the stone; part of the wall slid aside and he slipped inside the passage, knowing the stones would move in place again within seconds. Once safely in the shadows he changed into Padfoot, ready to jump at anything that followed him. But the wall closed quickly, and it was pitch dark.

Aided by his canine vision, he started along the passage. After a few yards he paused and sat on his haunches. What was it he had seen, back in the corridors? Someone under a Disillusionment Charm - someone able to stand motionless like a Muggle statue?

It could be. But who was it? Hadn't this Disillusioned person had ample opportunity to catch him during his exchange with the Tudor portrait? Surely no one who set eyes on the murderous Black would let him go? Or would Moony...

Impossible. If Remus were to find him, all Sirius could hope for was instant death, instead of the Dementor's Kiss. He didn't harbour the illusion Remus believed him to be anything but a traitor, having little reason to doubt his guilt. _I doubted him with even less reason, ignoring any love that was ever between us._ Today, he hardly even remembered what love felt like. There were moments when he tended to think it was a well-deserved punishment. 

Padfoot flinched. It was too much to deal with, even without the Dementors nearby. Withdrawing further into the dog's mind, Sirius rose and trotted on. Bloody rat. It was all his fault. But he'd pay for it. One day, he would.

48. _Finrod Felagund_

Rats. Again. He remembered the wounded one resting in his palm. The one with the missing toe that had not quite felt like a rat. Something strange was going on here, and he began to doubt if Black was really after the life of a student. Why would he lie about his intentions to the portrait of a woman long dead? It was this, more than anything that had kept Finrod from trying to catch the man. If he had known that the entrance to the secret passage would close so quickly, he would have made the attempt anyway, to ask Black some crucial questions. But he had been too afraid the other would hear his footsteps if he ran after him, instead of walking.

Too late now; even if he would find the right stone to tap, the dog would be gone by the time the passage reopened. Nevertheless, Finrod did not regret having let Black escape. Too much doubts surrounded the man - and his heart told him that Humor did not deserve to have his soul sucked into a void.

As this was a golden opportunity, he did not return to Remus's office right away but explored the castle, taking care to stop moving whenever he came within sight of others. He encountered two human ghosts; they were not fooled by Remus's magic, but neither did they pay much attention to him, as if they knew he was none of their concern.

At one point, he saw the Potions Master striding up a stair - his expression grim, his wand ready like a sharpened blade - and soon after an ageing woman with a stern face and a creased forehead. He saw many more paintings, moving and talking yet strangely flat to his eyes, like dried leaves and flowers - two-dimensional beings that had a history but lacked a future and were neither dead nor alive.

After a while, though, he decided to return to the second floor. He had almost reached his point of departure when he heard someone approached. Remus, returning to his office: Finrod recognised the measured, purposeful tread that fell just short of being brisk. He halted, waiting for the wizard to come into view.

Remus had his wand out, a light shining at the tip. Finrod suppressed a sigh; he didn't think it was a good idea to announce your presence in such a glaring way while chasing a killer on the loose, but he supposed mortals had no other choice, what with their limited nocturnal vision. The wizard walked straight to the door, ignoring Finrod (who was standing a mere three feet away), and went inside.

Not much later he came out again, his wand still lit, to scrutinise his surroundings. Finally, gazing past Finrod, he said: 'I've got a distinct feeling you're out here somewhere, Finrod, yet I can't even detect the movements you're supposed to make when you breathe.' 

Finrod remained motionless. Remus had claimed he'd be able to see him anywhere, as he was the one who had Disillusioned him. Apparently, the wizard had reckoned without the Elvish ability to stand perfectly still. 'Do you know you're scary?' Remus remarked after a while, still not quite looking into the right direction, though his wandlight hovered an inch from Finrod's elbow.

'Then praise yourself lucky, my friend,' Finrod said at last, grabbing the wizard's arm and raising it until the tip of the wand touched his own head, 'that I can't cast that charm myself - or I would be more than scary.'

Remus, unperturbed, smiled and tapped Finrod's skull. Not to his surprise, Finrod noticed that the reverse of the charm did indeed create a sensation of something hot trickling along his spine. 'Oh, but you are dangerous,' the wizard replied. He entered his office, and reaching his desk he turned around. 'I take it that you didn't find S- Black either.'

'Did you discover what exactly it was that he did?' asked Finrod, closing the door. He thought he heard a faint rumble from beyond the desk, but he wasn't sure. 

Remus stared at his shoes. 'He was about to stab a sleeping student with his knife.' When Finrod froze he added quickly: 'Not Harry - that's the student he's after. Harry's friend Ron Weasley. The boy woke up and screamed, causing Black to flee.'

'Stab a boy?' Finrod asked, frowning. 'Are you sure?' Somehow, this felt wrong. He suspected there was an alternative explanation, though he couldn't think of one.

'That was what it looked like, I'm told. He was probably after Harry all the time but didn't pick the right bed,' Remus replied. 'It turns out Sirius Black had this entire week's passwords to the Gryffindor Tower on a piece of paper.' He gazed up. 'I think we can guess now what it was the ginger cat brought him in the Forbidden Forest.'

'So do I.' Finrod wondered if he would have succeeded in catching Black's feline friend if he had tried. 'But the important question remains how your former friend is able to enter the castle.' No need to stress the word friend. 'Do you really have no idea, Remus?'

Though the wizard did not look away this time, his almost imperceptible flinch told Finrod all he needed to know. Remus knew perfectly well how Sirius Black was able to slip inside Hogwarts. But it was equally obvious that he had never told this to the Headmaster.

'Conflicting loyalties can tear you apart,' he said pensively, walking around the desk and sitting down behind it. 'Sometimes you wonder whether to speak, or to remain silent. The memory of the day when my mother's uncle found out that my father's brother and his sons were murderers and thieves, and I had omitted to tell him this, still makes me cringe. He called me to account and accused me of also having blood on my hands. And I felt that my hands were truly red, if only because I had been insincere. And yet, I was as loath to defend myself as I was to distance myself from my cousins - especially as I had not distanced myself from them when I should have. And even today it remains difficult to tell what I would do if I could relive that part of my life.'

'Then maybe it's a good thing you can't.' Remus had seated himself on the corner of his desk, his knees drawn up. The grey dawn smoothed out the lines in his face; but for the silver in his hair he looked for all the world like a child. A boy, lost in the maze of his own heart. But this was not a child; be it through no fault of his own, Remus was a Dark Creature. Or so he claimed, though Finrod did not understand how inner darkness could ever be a fate, instead of a choice.

'No one should have to choose between persisting in one error and risking to commit another,' the wizard added after a silence. 'What would you do, Finrod?'

Too non-committal. Afraid to bare his soul, Remus hid behind an ambiguous question, leaving it to Finrod to determine whether it was a theoretical problem or a practical request for advice. It depends on the nature of the errors,' he replied slowly. 'Although the Eldar are reluctant to give counsel, so you are asking the wrong person.' _Nor do I think that you have told me all there is to tell._ Again, Finrod heard the faint, rumbling noise that his ears had caught before; it came from a packing case in the corner of the room. 

Remus unfolded himself and slid down from the desk, the child transforming back into a worn, fragile looking adult. 'I think I'd remain a coward, sticking to familiar errors instead of facing new ones,' he said, smiling wanly. 'You haven't answered my first question yet, though I suppose that if you'd caught Sirius Black, I would have noticed.' His voice grew distant. 'I kept hoping I would be the one to find him. At least I would have killed him on the spot, instead of delivering him to the Dementors.'

_How fortunate for Sirius Black that I am not fully convinced of his evil nature,_ Finrod mused, _or I would abandon him to this peculiar form of wizarding mercy._ As it was, he decided to settle for the coward's choice, too: maintaining his silence like he had done in Thingol's halls.

49. _Hermione Granger_

When the other girls left for breakfast, some of them yawning hard enough for their jaws to come unhinged, Hermione remained alone in the dormitory. She lounged on her bed, almost too tired to think properly, though she knew she had to. Crookshanks sat on the windowsill, the tip of his tail moving jerkily at irregular intervals. He didn't look too happy, but as he hadn't eaten Scabbers he could hardly be suffering from guilt feelings. A pity he couldn't talk to assure her she was right about his clean record.

She wondered idly if Professor McGonagall could speak with him when she was in her animagus form. The next moment, she groaned. She hadn't wanted to think of the deputy Headmistress; it only reminded her of the Time-turner and all the lessons she was going to miss if she didn't have the device back by tomorrow. Instead, she closed her eyes, hoping to drift off. It didn't work: now she found herself dwelling on Finrod Felagund and the problem she had caused by wishing him to be alive and well. That was hardly better.

The temptation to believe in the reality of Finrod, a character she adored from a book she cherished, was overwhelming. He had such an indelible presence. He was so fully alive. (That he was also the most gorgeous male she'd ever seen was irrelevant, she told herself.) To her, he quite simply was; she could think of no better way to put it. To see him in the flesh - to hear him speak - to watch them smile - it was a reader's dream come true. And if anything, Hermione was a reader.

Professor Dumbledore would destroy the dream; it was only too obvious he wanted to get rid of Finrod. She didn't quite grasp why. Possibly it had something to do with Professor Lupin and the fact that he was a werewolf. If only she wasn't so tired, she'd surely be able to figure it out. But it didn't really matter; the point was: could the Headmaster be swayed?

Though the library books she had consulted remained vague on some points, she had discovered that it was possible to Banish almost anything. Banishing went further than a simple Evanesco, a spell taught in fifth year, and used to relocate objects and people. They didn't cease to exist but simply materialised in some unspecified Elsewhere, though if you tried to Vanish, say, a mouse and only made its head disappear, it was not very likely to survive the treatment.

A Banishment spell, though - the correct term was Exorcilio, though two textbooks mentioned a Confinitus curse and some preferred the term Banning to Banishing - reduced the object or person you wanted to remove to its representation on any medium fit to hold images. It was possible to Banish something or somebody into a painting or a photo, onto parchment, wood or stone, and even onto glass. It was highly qualified magic, but not impossible for an accomplished witch or wizard. (The medieval witch Parfaicte de Montaillou had managed to Exorcile three Dominican inquisitors to a stained glass church window to save a group of Cathars from burning. The book dismissed Parfaicte's actions as a well-meant yet misguided attempt to interfere in the religious affairs of Muggles. As a group, the Cathars were destroyed, despite her efforts.)

The tricky part, however, was to bind the Banished object or person to your medium of choice to make the result irreversible. This was where the Confinitus (used successfully by the guardian of Ophelia Watershed) seemed to come into play. None of the library textbooks was too clear about this aspect, though a couple of them hinted that the magic involved was grey around the edges, to say the least, and that the process required a complicated potion (enter Professor Snape). One text referred to a treatise that Madam Pince insisted was not at Hogwarts and would never be, if she had any say in it

Moreover, the success rate of this particular magic seemed to be as minimal as the risks involved were maximal, and if a person were to be banished to a text, every existing copy of the text could change. Fairy-stories could turn into horror tales; history could be revised, a farce could become a tragedy (or the other way around) and _The Silmarillion_ turn into a cartoon. Finrod could end up on the side of the Enemy or in the worst case, disappear altogether from the story.

Hermione shuddered. She couldn't let this happen. Sitting up, she leaned against the headboard to consult her notebook again. When she put it in her lap to stare ahead, Crookshanks left his perch. He leaped on the bed and marched along her leg. Looking up at her face he blinked twice before jumping on top of her notes, obscuring them completely. When she tried to pull the notebook from underneath his rump, he dug his claws into it. She sighed.

'What are you trying to tell me?' she asked, stroking him under the chin with a finger and feeling the first stirrings of a purr in his throat. 'Are you telling me my scribbles aren't worth studying? Do I have to seek the solution elsewhere?'

Crookshanks rubbed his head against her hand in feline ecstasy, purring loudly.

(TBC)

A/N: This story is coming to a close. Two more chapters, and it will be done!


	17. Chapter 17

_CHAPTER 17_

50_. Sybill Trelawney_

'A prophecy?' she asked, blinking. 'I'm sure there is some misunderstanding, Professor. I did offer to divine his future, but the suggestion frightened him so much... he bolted right away! Just like Remus, come to think of it. Some poor souls will never have the courage to face reality. Neither of them will be with us for much longer, I'm afraid.'

Dumbledore twinkled merrily at her - if only he had been fifty years younger... 'So you never got around to making any predictions?' he asked. Nothing about a wolf or a dog?'

How did he know...? Ah yes. He was a Legilimens; she had to tread carefully here. 'But Professor Dumbledore,' she cried, with the merest hint of a reproach. 'The dog I Saw - it was the Grim! The omen of death! That's why I knew... surely you don't think I make up my own prophecies?'

'I am suggesting nothing of the kind, Sybill,' Dumbledore replied calmly. 'As a matter of fact, I know that you don't make up your _prophecies_.'

Sybill frowned; had he stressed the last word? Unlikely. When Dumbledore fell silent she waited for a while, until she realised he was lost in thought. She cleared her throat. The sooner she could leave the Headmaster's office, the better. Some of the portraits were staring down at her, making her feel ill at ease. Fortunately, Fawkes paid no attention to her.

'What is it?' Dumbledore said abruptly. 'Ah yes, thank you, Sybill - that was all I needed to know. Another peppermint humbug before you leave?'

Daintily she took a piece of candy between her thumb and index finger, and popping it into her mouth she rose. When she walked to the door, she saw the portrait of Phineas Nigellus following her, positively smirking. She had no idea what could be so funny.

Outside Dumbledore's office, she found that untalented third year Gryffindor, Hermione Granger, hovering in front of the gargoyle. 'Try Acid Pops, my dear child,' she told her. 'And incidentally, you'll need courage to carry out the thing you have in mind.'

Hermione cast her a disturbed glance, and Sybill smiled.

51. _Hermione Granger_

Resolving to make her face look less like an open book the next time she encountered Trelawney, Hermione let the spiral stairs carry her up. When she closed the door of the Headmaster's office, the phoenix on his golden perch pulled its head from between its feathers and blinked at her with a benevolent black eye. She had no idea where Dumbledore could be until she heard a voice from the fireplace, saying: 'I'll see you presently, then.'

Straightening, he said: 'Good afternoon, Miss Granger,' before he turned to face her.

'Good afternoon, Professor Dumbledore,' she replied, not too surprised he knew who entered his room before he saw who it was.

'Please, sit down, Miss Granger.' He indicated a box on his desk. 'Sugar quill?'

She shook her head. 'No, thank you, Professor.'

'So, what brings you here?'

'I came because of Finrod Felagund,' she began hesitantly. 'It's about his removal - banishing him back into The Silmarillion, I mean,' she added with a squeak. She began to regret having come at all.

'I see,' he said, eyeing her with a kind of placid curiosity, waiting for her to say more.

Hermione cleared her throat. What had seemed a workable idea in her dormitory would probably sound foolish in the Headmaster's office, and she was keenly aware of the eyes of so many of his predecessors boring into the back of her head. Why had she come here at all? Maybe she should retrace her steps. It wasn't as if she really wanted to say all this - she merely felt obliged to.

'I read the story of Ophelia Watershed,' she blurted. 'Last Friday, in the library. How her guardian banned the character back to the play. But the kind of magic he used - not that the book was very clear about it, but it said there were risks... It could have dire results for everyone and everything involved. Actually, I had the impression - the book suggested the play is as dark as it is and most characters are killed, precisely because of what Ophelia's guardian did to the main role.'

'Miss Granger,' the Headmaster said in a mild voice, 'are you attempting to tell me I should know better than to use Dark Magic on Finrod Felagund?

Hermione was aware of her fingers leading a tortuous life of their own in her lap. 'I don't want to presume, but... Headmaster - what if _The Silmarillion_ is changed for the worse when you use the guardian's spell to send Finrod back? What if it becomes dark altogether, without a shred of hope remaining? What message will people find there, and won't this be contrary to the author's beliefs and intentions? Maybe Finrod will turn to the dark, too, and he's one of the best characters in the book, sacrificing himself for a friend...'

She really ought to come to the point now, but why was it so terribly difficult? She was supposed to be courageous!

Dumbledore stroked his long beard. 'I see your problem. But I have something of a problem, too. That problem is of flesh and blood and located here, not in the universe of a book, however noble and uplifting this book may be. It is my responsibility to solve what is real to me - and this would still be the case if we - you and I, and Harry and Ron, and Professor Snape, Professor Lupin and Sirius Black were all invented characters living only in the minds of others.'

'It's about Professor Lupin, isn't it?' Hermione whispered. 'You're trying to protect him.'

The Headmaster nodded.

52_. Severus Snape _

Again, Snape found himself striding through the Hogwarts corridors to Dumbledore's office. He could have taken a short cut and flooed, but as he wanted to go over his answer once more in his mind, walking was preferable.

By Banishing Felagund the Headmaster wanted to protect Lupin, so much was clear. Taking care of his own. In itself this was the proper thing to do. Twelve years ago, for instance, Dumbledore had coerced Lily's horrible sister and her worthless husband to take the Potter brat into their sorry excuse of a household and raise him. He'd had no other choice back then, what with Trelawney's ambiguous prophecy, and the blood protection created by a mother's sacrifice. All his broad-mindedness notwithstanding, even Albus Dumbledore, a stranger to pureblood mania who treated house-elves and werewolves and the likes of them as the equals of humans, would not hesitate to frighten Muggles into compliance or Obliviate them, or whatever treatment they required, for the benefit of the Wizarding World. He was right, of course; ultimately the Muggles, too, would benefit from this, even if they had no inkling of what was actually going on and no say or influence whatsoever. Such was the Wizard's Burden.

Reaching the Entrance Hall and taking a left turn to ascend the great stairs to the first floor, Snape nodded at some fourth year Slytherins who were loitering near the front doors. When the group acknowledged his greeting he noticed that a few faces bore furtive looks; it was easy to see they were up to no good. But they weren't actually committing any mischief and he was of the opinion that Slytherins deserved as many blind eyes as Gryffindors always got.

Climbing the stairs, Snape continued his musings. If he was completely honest with himself, he had to admit - however grudgingly - that Dumbledore had a point if he considered a werewolf in his service more important than the interloper Felagund. Except that this particular werewolf was Lupin, friend and accomplice of the dangerous, devious, murderous Black - after last night, the mere thought of the scum made Snape feel sick (and definitely not with fatigue).

Of all werewolves, Lupin was precisely the one who didn't deserve Dumbledore's protection. The irony was, that Snape had come to believe Felagund was telling the truth. As he had pointed out, the images of the dark pit and its horrors were too vivid to be fake, whether the memory was real, or born the instant he was summoned from this third-rate Muggle novel. And in that case, Lupin wasn't the werewolf who had bitten Felagund.

But none of this mattered, as long as he would transform and Snape could blame Lupin. After last night, getting Black's crony out of the way was imperative. Very few goals had ever justified the means better than this one.

Talk about the devil - there he was, Lupin, strolling past Moaning Myrtle's bathroom as if he was enjoying a walk beneath the waning moon.

'Lupin!' Snape snarled.

The other halted. 'Ah. Severus. On your way to the Headmaster, bringing the potion he requested from you?' he asked cheerfully

Of course. Despite all their cosy togetherness in Lupin's private quarters, the damned werewolf _would_ want Felagund out of the way before the next full moon. 'Going to have your latest friend Banned to a book with the help of a dubious spell, just to be on the safe side?' the Potions master retorted.

Lupin smiled. 'You'll be surprised.'

But on entering Dumbledore's office Snape was more than surprised. He knew Lupin was behind him, yet out of the fireplace popped - Lupin, dusting off the most tattered set of robes Snape had ever seen him in. His surprise lasted only a moment; though, then he understood.

53_. Remus Lupin_

'Take it easy, Severus,' said Remus, only just managing to keep a straight face. 'I'm no Boggart.'

'Very funny, Lupin,' the Potions master said sourly, and suddenly Remus wondered if he wasn't, actually, Snape's Boggart, or had been so in the past - be it in a different shape.

'We doubted Finrod could travel by floo,' he said, eager to dismiss the previous thought from his mind. 'So he had to use the corridors in an inconspicuous way.'

Ignoring him Snape turned to Finrod. 'So, who will you impersonate next?' _The Headmaster?_ his tone suggested. 'Dribbly the house-elf? That shouldn't be too difficult, seeing what you are.'

'Oh, he performed the house-elf act on me,' Remus said casually. 'But he got the sock.' Hermione looked up with a startled expression on her face. Fawkes made a soft, melodious noise.

'A beautiful bird,' remarked the Remus who-was-Finrod. The phoenix studied him for a while and inclined his head.

Scowling, Snape turned to Dumbledore. 'Headmaster. I see you're having visitors, so I'll keep it short. I regret to tell you that I can't brew the concoction you need on short term. I'm afraid I've got no darnel grains in stock at the moment, and as I'm sure you know the darnel must be picked while the moon is full, or the hallucinogens will damage both the mental and physical health of anyone who ingests the mixture.'

The full moon! Remus guessed Snape was referring to the potion one had to drink before casting an Exorcilio (he hoped the Headmaster wouldn't dream of using the Confinitus), and thought he had come up with a clever way to make life hell for the resident werewolf. _I bet he's got enough darnel to drive the entire Hogwarts staff insane, and many the students as well. _This was merely Snape's way of being non-co-operative without seeming rebellious. Fortunately, it didn't matter.

'I do not think we need any concoctions,' said Finrod, who had turned into himself during Snape's speech to Dumbledore, though he was still wearing Remus best set of rags. 'The time has come to discuss our plan, Remus. Did you bring the device?'

'I did.' Remus pulled out the Time-turner - which he had ascertained was not jinxed in any way - and held it up for everyone to see.

Snape, his hand already on the door handle, turned sharply about. 'You have a _Time-turner_?'

'It's not mine. Minerva asked me to check it on curses and hexes,' Remus replied. 'I'm very happy to declare it is perfectly safe.'

Hermione was not happy, though: her hand flew to her mouth. So she was the student Minerva had mentioned. Suddenly, several things fell into place. Unfortunately for her, he was going to propose something that would rob her of it. He felt a little sorry for her, but not too much. She had obviously used it to overtax herself.

'Well, well, well,' said Dumbledore. 'What a coincidence. Just before you entered my office, Miss Granger asked me if I had a Time-turner to spare. She thought Mr. Felagund could use it to return to the moment before he materialised at Hogwarts. Which would take him back to where he came from - whether a book, or his own world. And now you bring one...'

'But -' Hermione began, and faltered.

Snape was gazing darkly at the device in Remus's hand. 'It's highly dangerous to mess with time! And this thing was entrusted to a _student_?'

'I am aware of the problems involved, Severus.' Almost absent-mindedly Dumbledore rummaged through the sweets box on his desk, dug up a sherbet lemon and fixed it like the predator fixes his prey. 'Essentially, what a Time-turner does, is enabling one to bring about what is known to have happened, and enabling one to bring about what must happen but cannot otherwise come to pass.'

He smiled blithely, unaware of the fact that he had lost most of his audience. Snape was not the only one to frown. Even Hermione seemed to need time to process this information.

It was Finrod who spoke first. 'Then if my understanding is correct, by travelling back in time one cannot change the past, but only the future - and as one cannot change what has not yet come to pass, there is no change. Provided there is such a thing as the future, when time is traversible like space.'

Snape took a step forward. 'It's a known fact that time-travelling wizards and witches have killed their past selves by mistake,' he said threateningly

'But how can that be?' Finrod asked, unperturbed. 'Once you kill your past self, you will have no future self to go back in time and kill your past self. Perhaps your fact is no more than a rumour.'

Dumbledore was smiling. Remus's brain was making overtime. 'But if I travel back, and I can't change anything in the past, this eliminates my free choice,' he objected. He saw Snape nod and then grimace, as if the Potions master realised abruptly it wouldn't do to agree with an old enemy, who was a werewolf to boot.

'Only in the past,' Finrod said, his eyes sparkling; he was clearly enjoying himself. 'The world of the past is determined; the song is sung, the words are spoken, the deeds done, and that is called fate. Whatever you achieve in the past is already part of what has resulted in your present. Not to mention that freedom is a little overrated, sometimes. Few people can turn a ray of sunlight into a hailstone.'

'A powerful wizard can. Unless he's dead, like we are,' grumbled one of the portraits on the wall.

'Shut up, Phineas,' said a female voice. 'We're neither dead nor alive. We're paint.'

Snape muttered something incomprehensible, searching Dumbledore's face. The Headmaster did not seem about to make any corrections. Remus wasn't sure he concurred with what he believed Finrod had said.

After casting a brief glance at the portraits of the former Headmasters and Headmistresses, Finrod proceeded to study the people of flesh and blood. Finally, he gave an elegant shrug. 'Perhaps this is merely how my kind perceives existence; the Powers at whose feet I sat when I was younger taught me that mortals possess a freedom the Eldar do not have.'

Hermione opened her mouth, only to close it without having said a word. Finrod took her copy of the Silmarillion out of his - or rather - Remus's threadbare robes and put it on the desk in front of her. 'But whatever is the case, my path is clear. This book tells the history of my kindred, and our meeting and meddling with other races. It is a finished tale, I am told, and though my active part in it ends with my death, I do not simply vanish from it while dying of my injuries.'

'You get a proper burial,' Hermione whispered. 'And you'll walk w-'

'That is good to know,' Finrod said calmly, cutting her off as if he did not want or need to hear more. 'But what this tells me is that I went back to the reality of this book. My death and burial have come to pass; the Silmarillion recounts them. That means I shall return there, or else these things could not have taken place the way they are preserved here. Is it so unthinkable that I used a Time-turner to travel back to the very instant when I was whisked away? In this manner, what is known to have happened, will come to pass.'

'Provided all this is true, and you're neither delusional nor making false assumptions concerning your own existence - you'd die,' Snape said harshly. 'You were almost dead when I found you in that dungeon. I brewed the antidote that saved your life and madam Pomfrey nursed you back to health. Would you throw away our efforts on your behalf?'

His eyes were glittering angrily, and Remus didn't doubt he took Finrod's willingness to die as a personal insult.

'He cannot stay, Severus,' Dumbledore put in. He held out a hand, and Remus gave him the Time-turner.

'No, I cannot stay,' Finrod confirmed.

Snape looked disgusted. Hermione swallowed audibly.

(To Be Concluded)

A/N: I'm afraid the next chapter will really be the last (Sorry, Kate!). So, only two chances left to review...


	18. Chapter 18

_CHAPTER 18 + EPILOGUE_

_54. Finrod Felagund _

He doubted if any of them comprehended what it would mean for him to return. What it meant to be born deathless and still having to die. He had felt the first pangs before he was pulled from his own reality. It would be worse than the pain of his wounds or the wolf's venom coursing through his veins. Yet he knew he had to go and face it, face the Houses of the Dead and the judgement of Mandos.

Oddly enough it Remus - who risked most if he stayed - was the one to say it: 'Why? Why go to your death?' And taking the liberty to plunge into the wizard's mind, Finrod caught the thought behind it: _It's far from certain he'll become a werewolf. He didn't think so himself._

He hesitated. What he was about to do was cruel, but Remus had more than his share of pain and grief. He should not also have to feel guilty for letting a friend go to his death. As nothing less than the starkest of alternatives would do, Finrod thrust it at him, unrelentingly: _I do, now._ _Your magic works for me in this reality, as the Disillusionment Charm proved._ _Surely a werewolf bite will turn me. _When he saw the other blink he knew that his words had come through and added: _I must leave, Remus, to face the wolf that is death and what lies beyond it. It is enough that you will have your own wolf to face, time and again, without having to fear mine as well._

Remus bent his head.

Finrod cleared his throat. 'I do not belong here,' he said aloud. 'My home is elsewhere. Though I may die on my return, in the lands of my birth a House is waiting to receive me. My soul must seek entrance there, whatever it takes to cross the threshold. Consider this. I am of a race that does not die of old age. Were I to stay here - if this were possible - I would live on and on, doomed to see my friends die on me time and again, with none of my own kindred to turn to for comfort and company. Call me selfish, if you will. Also, consider what it would do to you, were you to see me remain young and unassailed by sickness and decrepitude.'

The Headmaster shook his head, but not in denial. 'Even if you could stay here, who would want you to suffer such loneliness? And who could live side by side with such longevity and not feel resentment of their own briefness gnaw at them? We have seen to what lengths some will go in order to eat death.' Finrod saw the blue eyes behind the half-moon glasses dart toward Severus Snape before they were fixed on Hermione. The Potions master's face contorted for a moment; then his eyes widened and he went rigid, as if transfixed with sudden understanding.

The Headmaster held the Time-turner aloft. 'Miss Granger, would you be willing to let our guest use this to return to his own world? It would be the most simple and elegant way to go about.'

'Can we be sure he will return there?' she asked anxiously.

'Nothing is ever wholly certain, child. But travelling back in time, he will pass the moment when your desire to save him pulled him into Hogwarts. From that moment, his time-line leads back to -' he sought Finrod's face, ' - what I am willing to assume is a reality as solid as our own, even if it is fiction to us. But do you realise that the last turn could send you straight back between the dying werewolf's fangs?'

Finrod nodded calmly, while Hermione whispered forlornly: 'But then my Time-turner would be lost to m- to this world.'

'Indeed, my child. That would be the case, it seems,' the old man confirmed.

Finrod had learned from Remus (who had it from the stern lady) how the girl had been using this device to take more classes than otherwise would be humanly possible. To judge by her stricken face, one would think Hermione's life depended on learning and knowledge. Finrod's Noldorin side sympathised with her predicament.

'You're a Gryffindor, Miss Granger,' came the voice of Snape, dripping with venom. 'One would think you knew how to make a choice between what is right and what is easy.'

'Severus, please,' the Headmaster said, but it was hardly a request.

Snape's jaws clenched visibly, but he spoke no more. With sadness, Finrod realised that this man - who was not without honour - would nurse his resentment until it was strong enough to destroy either himself or others. And the Headmaster would need every ounce of his mortal wisdom, and perhaps more, to mould all the conflicting emotions and interests with which his little world was rife into a higher unity. If such a thing were possible at all: it was nigh impossible for any finite being to do justice to each and every cause.

'I guess I don't really need a Time-turner.' Hermione's voice held a hint of defiance.

'Pity,' said a sarcastic voice from the wall. 'I'd have loved to witness the casting of a Confinitus curse.'

The Headmaster raised his eyebrows but said nothing. He merely smiled at Hermione, and Finrod knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that Dumbledore had another such device at his disposal. The girl would not go without, now that she proved willing to make the sacrifice. This ancient mortal might be manipulative, there was mercy to his method.

'Miss Granger,' the old man said. 'I expected no less of you.'

'Thank you, Hermione,' said Finrod.

'You thank me for helping you to go to your death?' she said, looking none too happy.

'I thank you for believing in me.'

'I only do so because I want to,' she objected quickly, as if earning gratitude for the wrong reason was the most embarrassing thing in the world.

'But what more could you do?' Finrod asked, and when Hermione had no answer to that he bent forward and kissed her on the cheek. 'Hermione Granger, _anar kalúva tielyanna_.'

'The sun will shine on your path,' she replied promptly, either unable to keep herself from translating his words, or merely repeating his farewell.

55. _Remus Lupin _

They were back in Remus's quarters for a private goodbye before Finrod would travel back to his own reality. The windows were open a few inches; the curtains were fluttering, and the scent of early spring rain pervaded the room. Finrod could not help thinking that if Mandos were to keep him in his Halls as the rebellious Noldo he was, this could be the last time he smelled anything in Arda. But maybe he would be granted the memory of smells, and sounds, and colours, and light.

'You want to leave,' said Remus softly, 'but you fear to go.'

Finrod nodded; no use denying the obvious.

'Are you afraid to die?'

'I am not entirely sure what I dread most. The death of hope rather than that of the body, I should think. Or that I will regret my choices once I face the consequences.'

'There's a way to find out,' the wizard mused after a silence. 'I've got a Boggart in a trunk in my office. That's a creature that takes the shape of whatever it thinks we fear most. It could be good to know, and interesting to see how it would react to you. You could also practice the laughter needed to fight it.'

Finrod shook his head. 'I doubt if I could ever laugh at the prospect of losing hope. And I could be stalling for time if I went there.' He weighed the hourglass in his palm. For such a powerful device it was ridiculously light.

Remus smiled. 'Best not do it, then.' His smile dissipated. 'I'll be sorry to see you leave, Finrod. Another friend gone...' He frowned. 'Forget the self-pity. You'll be facing yet another farewell, and a worse one than this.'

_It will be worse for Beren. Like you, he must face the loss_. 'Perhaps you will find Sirius again,' Finrod said.

The wizard cast him a strange glance.

'I think he's really just after rats,' Finrod explained. 'Like the ginger cat with the squashed face. It was after an old rat I held in my hand, a few days ago. A truly ratty little creature. But it escaped me.'

Remus continued staring at him. 'If I had the Marauder's Map,' he murmured, 'then... But that's none of your concern anymore.' He shook his head. 'He was dear to me. Sirius, I mean. Or no, he still is. If the Dementors catch and kiss him, part of my soul will be gone as well. I wonder what that makes me. Part traitor, probably.' He smiled wryly. 'The heart has more than one chamber; I guess one of them is always prepared to host treachery.'

'Kin unto kin, brother unto brother,' murmured Finrod. _If I do not leave now, I will never leave._ He stepped forward to embrace Remus. 'Then open the others to trust,' he replied, while the wizard's arms went around him. He kissed Remus on the forehead. 'I must go now. It may be that we shall not meet a second time in death or life. _Namárie_.'

'Good-bye, Finrod,' Remus said quietly.

When they separated, Finrod took the Time-turner in both hands. 'One more thing. I made you a farewell gift. Look for it under your couch.'

He took a deep breath and began to turn the hourglass over.

A blur, and he was gone. Remus stared at the place where he had vanished, knowing the meaning of loss all over again. _Less than a month_, he thought. _He was here less than a month, so why does it seem so much longer? Does time move differently if you are in the company of Elves? Did I miss a transformation?_

Laughing mirthlessly at his own absurdity he tore his gaze from the emptiness where Finrod had been and knelt down at the couch. He illuminated the shadows underneath with his wand and found the object Finrod had mentioned. It was solid to the touch, and when he picked it up to study it in the harsh, unbiased light of day it turned out to be a dog, carved from wood, about three inches high.

Or not _a_ dog. This was Padfoot, Padfoot running, until the last detail, from the point of his noise to the tip of his tail, from his wide grin to his padded feet. Unmistakably, uniquely Padfoot, even though the dog wasn't black but had the colour and shading of the wood it was carved from. The dog remained motionless like a Muggle statuette. Yet somehow he was more himself, more alive than if a wand and a spell had charmed the wood into motion.

He could start barking any moment. Transform any moment -

It was sheer agony of beauty, crafted by someone whose art was a birthright. Remus cradled it in his hand, stroking it carefully, as if it was brittle like ancient bones and dreams and memories.

_You saw Padfoot_, he thought, vaguely noticing he was sitting on the floor and something seemed to be wrong with his eyesight. _You knew about the dog, Finrod. And you never said a word. _

He would have laughed if his lungs hadn't cried for air and his chest hadn't ached so much.

_Epilogue _

In the gloom of Sauron's deepest dungeon, Beren and Lúthien did not see the strange object that had slipped from Finrod Felagund's dead hand. Therefore, when they left to fulfil their quest, it remained behind with the werewolf's corpse, to be buried under a collapsing watchtower.

Later, when Beleriand was rent and torn by the Powers in the War of Wrath and the waves rolled in to swallow the footsteps and the handiwork of Elves and Men, of maidens and warriors alike, the undercurrent caught it and swept it away to a place not known by any who breathe the air and tread the earth.

And if, much later yet, it was found by such folk as knew what it was and what purpose it served, this was not recorded anywhere.

"But Finrod walks with Finarfin his father beneath the trees in Eldamar."

_Finite Incantatem_

_A/N: The solution only works in the HP bookverse, where Harry and Hermione move back in time and in space (and find themselves where they were at the moment to which they went back). The movie gets this wrong._

_Thank you, everyone who reviewed this. I hope the ending was to your liking!_


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